The Role of the Peloponnesian War in Modern Dating
by threesquares
Summary: The full title of this story is The Role of the Peloponnesian War in Modern Dating Rituals or how Temperance Brennan kissed a warrior. What if Brodsky's latest kill was not found until AFTER Booth and Brennan went to that lecture. Tag for Killer in the Crosshairs. Part 1 complete at Chapter 17.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N Thank you to Huronia for her suggestions. And thanks for the whimsical title on this rainy Sunday! M.**  
_

_The Role of the __Peloponnesian __War in Modern Dating Rituals_

_(or how Temperance Brennan kissed a warrior)_

"So," he said, still moving his arms and legs a little, as he jogs in place,"you still going to that lecture on the...what was it..." he smiles a little half smile "...Peloponnesian War?"

I'm surprised. "Yes." I say.

Still moving, moving, body and face, "Want some company?"

"Booth," I blurt out "it's going to be very dry. I don't think you'll like it."

"Bones. It's war." I think I know what he means, but I'm nervous. I'm still breathing heavily from the sprint to the coffee cart and the happiness that flooded me when I realized that he had sought me out. The lecture today-as has the lecture I have attended every weekend for months-is to ground me, engage my restless brain from dwelling on my partner. I realize suddenly that I am staring. The blue of his t-shirt, the breadth of his chest, the sweat dampening his hair, his neck. Damn, I'm back to his chest again.

"Bones?"

I meet his eyes, jumping a little. "Yes, Booth?" I say automatically.

"So...the lecture?"

"OK."

And that's that. Our phones don't ring, signalling a case. Booth doesn't think better of it, offering an excuse. I don't insist on going myself. We order coffee.

**B**

We walk home together through the park, talking, and he drops me at my apartment. We stand outside for a minute. "I'll meet you there, Bones? It's in the small lecture hall near the big lecture hall at American, right?"

"Booth, are you sure you want to come? I really do think it going to be pretty dry." I warn him, but am not sure myself why I am trying to convince him. I...I _like_him, like being with him. He looks so good, like always, big and warm and now he's smiling at me.

"Yeah. I'm sure Bones." One of those times where he says little, stays still, just looking at me. Trust the evidence, Temperance. He says he wants to go. You want him to go.

"Ok, then. I'll see you there. We shall meet outside, quarter of two?" Booth smiles, just a little, but his eyes are happy, happier than his lips.

"Yeah, I'll see you there..." his voice rises a little as he has already turned and started jogging toward his apartment, looking back over his shoulder and waving a little half wave.

**B**

The lecture is dry, although the war led to the end of one of the most vibrant cultures of the Greek and Roman age. But the lecturer is a student of a friend of mine, a newly minted Ph.D. and not yet practiced at capturing an audience's attention. I carefully plan out several questions to ask and am surprised when Booth asks a question of his own about deployment during the second phase of the war. I watch him as he speaks and he turns slightly and winks at me, before listening attentively to the lecturer's answer.

When the young man has moved on to the next question, I lean over and whisper in his ear.

"_Booth. I really __**didn't**__ know you were interested in Greek and Roman history._"

Booth shifts his face toward me and we are almost cheek to cheek. I can feel the heat of his against mine. As he speaks, I can feel the prickle of his Saturday whiskers just barely brushing the smooth plane of my face. And he whispers too.

"_I'm not, Bones._"

He pulls back only the slightest bit so he can see me, and I can see his eyes, deep brown and serious. His mouth is close and, unable to speak, I tilt my head slightly in question, hoping for cool, fearing that the heat rising up at his nearness, his smell, his breath on my ear, will either be readily apparent to him or, worse, will compel me to open my mouth against him now, right now, without any more waiting. For a moment, it is as if I did take that step and I think _oh my god am I actually kissing him_ but I'm not and yet I can almost taste his skin as I open my mouth against his chin. Our first kiss in so so long and I don't hunger for his mouth as much as I do for his skin. I want to taste the sharp bristles of his beard against my mouth. I want to lick the _corner_of his mouth as he turns toward me, trying to meet me head on but failing as I open my mouth a little and kiss him again on the edge of his mouth and then pushing softly, wetly, against the cleft of his chin, and then under his chin where the skin is still sandpaper rough, and down in a series of open-mouthed sweeps to the hollow of his neck.

It's only been seconds but he must see something in my eyes that he doesn't understand because his eyebrows draw together and he glances down at my mouth, eyelashes feathery and sweet as they flutter down. My hand reaches of its own volition and touches his cheek, strokes the skin covering his right zygomatic arch, almost brushing the ends of his eyelashes.

His eyes jump back up to mine. "What?" he croaks, almost growls, his voice low.

I pull back slowly, the tips of my fingers still touching his face and I rub my thumb one last time across the top of his cheek.

"_Eyelash_. " I whisper and drop my hand. He moves suddenly and catches my hand, holding it cradled in his, turning it over, scrutinizing it carefully.

_"Must have dropped it._" Still looking.

"_What?_" Still whispering.

"_The eyelash. I want to make a wish." _I start to share that we no longer believe that acquiring a part of a person's body assigns power over that person to witches or the devil, but he stops me, breathing out,

"_shhhh" _and glancing meaningfully at the podium even though no one is paying any attention to us but he is still searching, now looking around our hands to my lap, the armrest, the chairs. Searching, honestly, for an eyelash that does not exist since I only said that to divert his attention from my misbehaving hand.

"_There it is._" he says, lifting my other hand. He raises it up to his mouth, closes his eyes, and blows gently, shifting the imaginary eyelash off of my hand and into the air. His eyes even seek to follow the path of the imaginary eyelash, but his hand is firm on mine, flipping and sliding until we are palm to palm and holding hands, his body resting back in his seat and his eyes now once again focused intelligently on the speaker, who at long last seems to be winding down, no longer looking convulsively at the moderator for cues and reassurance, the trial almost complete.

But the speaker could talk forever, if I could choose, because Booth is holding my hand and mine has stayed dry despite the heat pulsing through me, and I allow it to contract and squeeze just the tiniest bit. And he squeezes the tiniest bit back, still looking straight ahead but I am not, I am watching him in profile and I see the small smile grace his beautiful lips and he turns once again and smiles more broadly now, at me. Finally, at me, and I smile and a little laugh escapes. And I can't help it, I curl forward and press my face into his shoulder. He raises his arms and pulls me in and we are hugging, clutching each other in the lecture hall, people clapping politely now as the lecturer smiles and nods and gathers his notes to leave.

The clamor of voices and people rising and shifting down rows muffles my voice even further as I say, into his chest, "Booth, what did you mean?"

Booth pulls his head back without loosening his hold on me and says to the top of my head, his left hand stroking my back through my shirt. "Huh?'

I press even a little closer, bits of vaguely relevant facts about _Eupheme goddess of applause _and _Tyche goddess of fortune thank you for encouraging our neighbors to leave_ and Aristophanes' poem aptly titled The Origin of the Peloponnesian War _**The words I speak are bold, but just and true**_**...**

"You...you said that you weren't interested in Greek and Roman history."

"I wasn't. I'm not." His hand has shifted to stroke the nape of my neck and thread through my hair against the back of my head and my body shivers once, jerking a little against him. And I pull back too, just enough to meet his eyes, to breathe his breath. "I...I..." he speaks against my lips, mouths still closed but lips touching, rubbing slightly against one another. "I just wanted to be with you."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones.

**A/N:** **Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my story. I am a little bit in shock that so many people like it and that some of you like it enough to say so. Thank you thank you thank you. Thank you, also, to three people who have been willing to comment on my story before it is posted, so that it is better than it was before: huronia, bluemuriel, and dharmamonkey. Thank you. Any mistakes or things you don't like are all me.**

* * *

The Role of the Peloponnesian War in Modern Dating Rituals; or,

How Temperance Brennan Kissed a Warrior

Chapter 2

In National, Expert Reviews Column, May 1, 2012, David Thomas reports that "you can opt for bench seats in the front and second rows to accommodate up to nine occupants [in the Tahoe]." Booth will be driving an updated version of his earlier SUV, the Chevy Tahoe. Frankly, the Sequoia was just too difficult to get frisky in.

**B**

Booth speaks against my lips, mouths still closed but lips touching, rubbing slightly against one another. "I just wanted to be with you." And I can't even stop to say _I wanted to be with you too is this really finally happening now_ because my lips are finally _finally_ against his and he tastes like sugar, like the blossoms that Oddyseus' men ingested on the island of the Lotus-eaters and lost all ambition to do anything but eat more _he tastes so good _and after kissing Booth softly with my mouth open but without using my tongue for some amount of time, I can't wait. I lick into his mouth and suddenly, I am not in charge anymore.

Suddenly, his left hand grips my chin to hold me in place and his lips claim mine, demanding, against my mouth. My hands have been between us all this time but open and splayed, not knowing whether to grab him or push him. He bends forward just enough to dominate, deepening the kiss further, and my hands land against his abdomen. He places the fingertips of his right hand, all five of them, against my right side, thumb and first finger lightly stroking against the underside of my breast, the other three pressing against my side, his gentleness here in stark contrast to his ownership of my mouth. Ownership. My body is on fire.

Booth pulls away, his breathing fast against my lips. "Bones…"

My eyes still shut, our faces still close, I want nothing more than to kiss him again, longer, deeper. I croak softly, "What, Booth?" Eyes still resolutely shut.

"Hey…" he says, gently stroking the pad of his thumb along my eyelid and cupping my face with his hand. "Hey, look at me, Bones."

I open my eyes and again, try for cool. I allow myself to consider the striations in his irises and lose track of time.

"Bones?"

"Yes Booth?"

"Let's get out of here." I look around. Almost everyone is gone. They left...while we were kissing. I was kissing Booth. Booth kissed me back. I repress a laugh. Really, our behavior was outrageous. I can't stop smiling. I look up at Booth, wondering how he feels. What does this mean? Can we…be together? Can I **kiss**him again, is really what I want to know. How long will I have to wait? Maybe he wants to prolong our afternoon together. Maybe…he would stay the night at my apartment? The pure, illicit, unlikely, delicious possibility of this makes me shiver and his hands tighten on me as he waits for my answer.

"Bones…what are you thinking?" he demands with a cautious gleam in his eye, his body shifting almost imperceptibly. My desire flares even brighter. And then his face changes again and he looks down, straightening his body to reach for his phone in his pocket. "Booth."

**B**

An hour later, I kneel on the cement floor of the old warehouse, Booth examining the walls and ceiling for clues left by the killer. "The heart-shaped superior inlet indicates that this victim was a male," I offer.

"The suit was definitely a give-away for me, Bones." Booth swings around from peering into the shadows to say casually, "you know, I'm sorry we didn't get to talk more after the lecture."

Despite the grim situation, I look up and hold Booth's gaze, considering. I am still disappointed and I can still taste him on my lips. I smile a little, hoping that teasing him is okay at this juncture. "I know how much you wanted to hear more about Sparta supporting the rebels in Ionia-"

"You wanted to hear about what?" Caroline's larger than life presence brings us both back to the job at hand.

"Oh, Booth is a big fan of the Peloponnesian War. We went to a lecture together." I babble.

Caroline raises her eyebrows dubiously, "Oh, I'm sure he is."

"What are you doing here?" Booth turns again to his restless pacing and peering. The three of us consider what we can conclude from the evidence and context. As always though, Booth comes to some conclusions of his own. "The killer didn't care about the money. He made his own round from copper. And the bullet had to travel through all this piping and still be precise enough to kill. This was Broadsky. Broadsky did this."

I feel the chill of his words penetrate the bubbling warmth of anticipation that had settled into my stomach since he came to me at the park. Booth turns and looks at Caroline, his condemnation equal to her approbation for Broadsky's choice in victim.

"The sniper doesn't get to make the call; Broadsky doesn't get to make the call. This ends now. Broadsky is mine."

**B**

While Booth and Caroline interrogate Ortiz, Mr. Nigel Murray and I learn much from our first examination of the bones. Over the rest of this day and most of the next, however, my attempts to understand the purpose and methodology of the killer, presumably Broadsky, are less successful. My discussions with Booth, my questions to him about the nature of a sniper's training and motivation, seem to make him angry, if anything. He is the one I ask about such things, though, and he usually values my input. But if I am reading his body language and tone of voice correctly, Booth is tense and wary of me. "I am not him," he says. "I'm the good guy; he isn't. Life is all about taking sides and Broadsky, well, he joined the wrong team." Despite my assurance that I meant nothing critical by my assertions, Booth seems unconvinced and our ease with each other diminishes further. I feel sad and tense myself and am not sure how fix things.

When Booth parks the car outside of Paula Ashwalt's cabin, I put my hand on his arm. "Booth?" He stares straight ahead and exhales strongly, his hands tight on the steering wheel as he gazes out toward the hunting ground. I shift a little closer to him, my hip touching his. He tenses further, but before he can pull away, I take a risk. It seems to me that, whatever he is upset about right now, yesterday afternoon is not so far away that he could have stopped wanting to be with me. In my bed last night—a bed I had hoped to be occupying with Booth, to be perfectly honest—I thought about what he said, that he just wanted to be with me. I let the idea fill me up, circulate through my body like blood, until I believed it, until I was flush with the memory of his lips on mine, the long desired taste of his skin, the sound of his voice growling against my lips.

Remembering that, I take a chance. "Hey." I say and reach out to lay a single finger against the corner of his right eye, reminding him of yesterday. "Look at me, Booth." I tap gently on his temple so that he will turn toward me. My palm slides flat against his far cheek, and I shift so that my legs are underneath me and I am kneeling next to him on the seat. I lean forward quickly but not so quickly that he can't turn away if he wants. I am close, so close, and our faces are just millimeters from each other, but as I reach that last bit forward, to press my lips against his, he does turn away. He turns away, but just a little, so that my lips graze the very edge of his mouth. He doesn't pull away entirely though, just his head and just a little. He stays still and silent and when I look at him I can see that his eyes are open but downcast. He seems to be waiting, or is frozen. I am nervous about continuing the risk, so I stick with what is safe and kiss the corner of his mouth again. Two, three, four little kisses, each one a little softer, a little longer. Five, six, seven. My mouth is open, feeling the prickle of beard and tasting his skin. Eight, nine, ten, on the last one I allow myself to open my mouth a little further, lick the corner of his mouth a little. His head drops back the tiniest bit, his neck loosens, and he groans low and soft. I lean over further, kissing only his bottom lip-eleven, twelve, thirteen-and then letting my tongue taste it before sucking it firmly into my mouth, a little harder than I thought I wanted to.

I have now leaned over far enough that my body presses against his arm and shoulder, and the jolt of pleasure that shoots through me brings me back to awareness. This time I am the one to pull back, sitting down carefully in my seat, smoothing my skirt and touching my lips gently with my fingers, touching that last kiss. The brief silence is broken by Booth opening the door to the truck, getting out. "Stay in the car," he says. "I'm not going to take any chances."

"What?" I call after him, frustrated at being left behind and…well, frustrated in general. I notice the black specks circling overhead and reach for the door. Booth's irritated voice calls back to me, "Bones! What are you doing? Please, Bones, get back in the car."

"Those are carrion birds, Booth."

"That's fascinating, Bones. Now will you get back in the car?"

I point out that if Broadsky was going to shoot, he would have already, and I spin to make my point. Booth shouts even louder for me to get back in the car. I don't know what to do except what I always do. At least now, he is shouting at me for the usual reasons. He gives in as I march toward the strange structure in the center of the field. We examine the remains of the deer and the odd hallway in the field together. When his phone rings, I'm thinking about what else the deer can tell me, and when he turns to me, his eyes are bleak.

"Paula Ashwalt just killed herself at her desk."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story. Your words are truly appreciated, and you have my sincere gratitude for the time you take to write your thoughts down. Thank you too to three people who beta my writing and made this chapter much stronger than it started, not to mention sexier, so you can thank them! Huronia, Dharmamonkey, and grandfather told me once I could take any of "those old books up above the garage" because they were "just junk and not worth anything". The following quotation from the Lotos-Eaters was taken from my attic copy of Tennyson, gold leaf and all. Thanks, Puppa.

The Role of the Peloponnesian War in Modern Dating Rituals

Chapter 3

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,  
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined  
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.  
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd  
Far below them in the valley, and the clouds are lightly curl'd  
Found their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world;  
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,  
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,  
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Lotos-Eaters

* * *

If anything, Booth is quieter on the ride back to the Jeffersonian, and I wonder if he feels responsible for Paula Ashwalt's death in some way. Letting myself touch Booth these last days has been such heady relief, so tight had I kept rein on my desire, and as frustrated as I was not to be able to kiss him longer and more privately, to take things further, it is now that I feel the sharpest pain from the distance between us. This pain is all the sharper because I know that he needs me now, when he is hurting, just as I am beginning to admit I need him. My frustration the last day or two has been for myself, but now, I wish for him that we had gotten farther, if only so that I would be in a better position to hug him, to reach out and take his hand. I look at his hand and think about taking it when he speaks.

"I'm going to get this guy. He's not going to keep doing this."

"Your words are quite ironic." I say, responding, barely thinking about what I am saying. Analysis is as natural to me as breathing.

"What do you mean?"

"I imagine that Broadsky would say the same thing as he stalks his prey."

"Except that I'm the good guy, Bones. He isn't."

"You both led a life in which you were paid to take lives."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I just like to understand. I admire your certainty, but since good and bad are such subjective concepts how could you ever be sure you are doing the right thing?"

"Well, it is not subjective to me. I mean, there is good and there is evil. Life is all about making choices and Broadsky, well, he joined the wrong team."

Booth shifts unhappily, squaring his shoulders and placing both hands on the wheel. We drive the last few minutes in silence, and just like that, my chance to take his hand is gone.

**B**

He drops me at the Jeffersonian and I work with Angela and Mr. Nigel-Murray to discover what the slaughtered deer and bullet fragments can tell us. Late in the afternoon, I retreat to my office, unsettled at how uncertain I am in how to approach my partner. Picking up the phone, I decide to call him, hoping that he will meet me at the diner or come over here for coffee. He doesn't pick up his cell. I call Sweets' office, wondering if maybe they are interrogating a witness or suspect. Sweets' secretary answers and when I ask if Sweets is available there is a short silence while she checks.

"Sorry, Dr. Brennan, his door is shut and he's with someone right now."

"Oh. All right. I was looking for Agent Booth, but I thought—"

"Oh, he's in with Dr. Sweets. Shall I tell him you called?" the woman asked helpfully.

"No. No, that's all right. I'll leave a message at his office. Thank you."

Booth is in with Sweets. And they aren't interrogating someone related to the case in Sweet's office, although they _could_ be talking about it. But the door is shut. That means it's personal. Can Booth be talking with _Sweets _about what is bothering him, instead of me? Something about the situation makes me uncomfortable, but I can't decide what. Even more confused and frustrated than before, I turn to my desk, working my way through emails and a student letter of recommendation before finally giving up an hour later. My mind keeps wandering. At close to six, I am one of the last in the office, and I leave without doing more than waving a goodbye to the security guard across the lab.

Instead of driving home, I find myself parking in the Hoover parking garage and making my way to Booth's office. He isn't there, but an agent thinks he might have gone to the gym on the 8th floor. I hesitate, not sure if I want to take this as far as interrupting him at his workout, but before I know it, the elevator is opening and I am stepping out toward the bank of windows framing the outer wall of the Hoover's gym. The main room is pretty crowded with people running on treadmills and using stationary bikes. Entering through the main door, I step to the side and scan the room for Booth. I don't see him, but I know that the room with the free weights and the boxing bags—speed bags and heavy bags primarily—are in the back corner. I skirt the room and make my way to that corner, its environs demarcated by more interior windows as well as windows on the outside wall, currently spreading light in long golden stripes of fading daylight. I don't know if there are other people in the room, but I see Booth immediately, t-shirt dark with sweat, bench pressing free weights in ribbons of sunlight with a spotter standing by casually. Booth looks like he has been at it for a while, and yet, the weights rise and fall without pause, without seeming effort. I must be right because he finishes quickly and, nodding thanks to the man spotting him, grabs a towel and wipes off the bar and bench first, and then his face and neck. When he looks up, he sees me.

He pauses only a moment and then turns away. I am frozen in my surprise and watch as he straps on gloves and heads to one of the speed bags. I am thinking of leaving when he starts his rhythmic pummelling, eyes suddenly locked on mine. I..I am held in thrall by his gaze. Leaning slightly against the frame of the window, I stare at him—there is no other word for it—as he stares at me. Never have I felt so helplessly connected to another person. The ball speeds up, his fists move faster, but he still watches me through its blur. Sweat beads and flies from his forehead and hair and then finally, his fists slow and drop to his sides. Standing still, breathing very fast, he looks at me, eyes shifting down my body, and I can feel his gaze on every part of me. Neck, breasts, stomach, groin, legs. His eyes travel back up and linger on my breasts and even, it seems to me, on my mouth. I may not read people very well, but I am not having any trouble now. Desire. He wants me, and I certainly want him. _ What's stopping him?_, His eyes seem slightly softer now as he looks out at me. But still, after a minute more, he turns his body and punches the heavy bag, shifting it with the power of his body. All I can think is what it would be like to have that power against me and over me and for me. I can't stand there, on the other side of the glass, any longer and I flee, unable to understand or accept what seems to be anger, and his deliberate distance.

I flee home, to my apartment, and find what solace I can in music and in preparing a simple meal, forcing myself to eat as much as I can stomach. I run through a yoga practice meant to help center and relax. I read until I can no longer pretend to be gaining anything from the book. And then I am in bed, in the dark, curled up on my side, the light from the city coming in through the half-drawn curtains, when I hear the knock on my door.

Turning on a light as I walk across the main room, I know who it is before I look through the peephole. I pull open the door without checking and it is obvious that I didn't check and of course, Booth doesn't disappoint.

"Bones! You didn't even check that it was me!" He says, crowding me until I step back to let him in.

"Booth, I knew it was you. I can identify your knock." I close and lock the door behind him. I linger, not sure I want to turn and face him. _I am Temperance Brennan. I don't need to hide. _I turn, cross my arms over my unbound breasts, and look at him steadily. "Why are you here, Booth?"

Booth's voice is low and rough from strain and he says, "Broadsky was waiting for me at my apartment tonight. He was angry about Paula, held a gun on me the whole time. Never wavered, never gave me an opening."

I am appalled at the very thought and my arms fall away. "What? How did he get in?" I am outraged and scared. "Nevermind." I stalk forward. I'm not sure what I'm doing but I've had enough. I've spent the day being patient, the last months being patient, but now, now he was in _my _apartment, after having been threatened by a sniper who wanted to kill him, after denying me at the Hoover, after letting me kiss him in the car. "First, are you all right?" I reach out and grip his biceps, reassuring myself that he is physically unharmed. His hands come to rest at my waist and he pulls me into an embrace, just like that, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Our lower bodies press together, and his thumbs rub little circles into the skin under my tank top. My hands caress his arms and I tilt my head to look up at him. "Are you all right?" I say again softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, Bones. I'm all right. But he threatened Parker, said that he wouldn't hesitate to make him fatherless. I called Rebecca, made sure they are protected, but after that, all I could think of was that he could get to you, too. I need to know that you won't open the door without checking again, Bones. Promise me." He shakes me a little bit and I can see the emotion contorting his face, roiling in his eyes.

I can't resist anymore, and I wrap my arms around his warm body, my cheek against the cool of his jacket, but my arms snug against him under it.

"Booth." I breathe.

Booth seems to give in, too, setting me away from him just long enough to shrug off his jacket and toss it to the side. He slings an arm around me in that way he has and leads me to the sofa, but when we get there he sits and pulls me onto his lap, something we have never done before. But my body knows what to do: get as close as possible. I curl into him. I put my arms around his torso and squeeze. I wedge my face into the join of neck and shoulder and breathe. I lay my ear against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. For his part, he doesn't hesitate, but pushes both his hands up under my shirt to press firmly into my back, as if to hold me to him. One down low, at my hip, and one higher, laying boldly in the middle of my naked back. For a long minute, we just breathe together, and then he starts to stroke my back in slow circles and then in long sweeping arcs, from the nape of my neck to the sensitive small of my back. When he speaks, I can feel the rumble of his words in his chest, against my face; in a very real way, with my cheek pressed against him, I can feel the sound of his voice with my bones. Drugged as I am by his nearness, I still smile a little at the thought.

"I went to see Sweets today. I'm just angry, Bones. At Broadsky, and at...other things. I don't want to talk about that now, but I wanted you to know. I just needed to see you, make sure you were safe." He doesn't mention the gym again, and I wonder about the other things that have provoked his anger.

"Booth, you know that I am capable of taking care of myself, but..." I forestall his next words, "I find that I am used to your protectiveness." I think I should say more but I don't know the words that will unlock the answers I need.

So we sit, pressed close, his hand moving lightly against my back in circles, until our breathing is synchronized. I should be sleepy but while I am amazed at the deep contentment I feel in his presence, I feel alert and energized. My hands start to itch to touch his skin too. I move my arms down and shift my body, nuzzling his neck a little to distract him. Booth lets out a whispered groan, and then gasps a little as my fingers penetrate the space where his shirt has ridden up against the sofa. Emboldened, I slip my entire hand flat against the skin of his pelvic girdle, fingers dipping just below the waistline of his jeans. I rotate my hands flat and smooth up his chest until I feel the hard nubs of his nipples leave little trails on my palms, until my hands rest against his clavicles. My arms are now trapped under his shirt and I pull until he leans forward a little, his eyes dark and gleaming on mine, so that the shirt rides up and I can pull it over his head.  
Increasingly, it is all I can do to ignore the waking visions of having sex with Booth. Everything makes me want to touch him, to _claim_him. It is irrational in the most infuriating way, but as I become more convinced emotionally and intellectually that we really do belong together, my body insists on trying to make that real. Despite this, what I feel right at this moment is the overwhelming need to reclaim that feeling of closeness and anticipation that I felt in the lecture hall.

I rub my thumbs against his clavicles and stroke his neck. He starts to lean his head back, involuntarily, and then jerks forward again, his eyes a little foggy but trying to remain steady on mine. I smile a little and reach both hands up to bracket his face, moving just my thumbs to close his eyes and press his head back onto the cushions. I struggle a little as I adjust my position until I am straddling his lap. He is turned on, clearly, as am I, but I ignore that. I trace his face gently with my fingers. I trace my fingers along his eyelids, his forehead, and finally, along his cheeks.

His cheeks are rough with the day's beard, but he smells wonderful, a combination of Ivory soap and his shampoo. I can picture him, agitated after Broadsky's intrusion, trying to calm down but finally showering, throwing on jeans and a T-shirt to drive over here. I weave my hands into his hair and slowly rake my fingernails over and over through it, along his scalp to the base of his neck. I can see the tension leave him, bit by bit. His shoulders relax, his neck loosens, the tension around his eyes dissipates, and his mouth opens a little.

I lift up on my knees, my pelvis pressing harder against him and he moans until I cover his mouth with mine. I am kissing him from above and the angle is just right. With his head tilted back he has almost no range of motion but I am free. I tilt my head and kiss him gently. I kiss him in short gentle bursts, rubbing my lips against his, licking just a little into his mouth. I kiss him until my knees are weak and my body is flush with want. I am amazed at how vulnerable and passive he is willing to be, even though he is clearly almost painfully aroused. I kiss him one last time, drawing his head up with my hands, and his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, his lips a little chapped and still wet from my mouth.

I run my hands down his neck and shoulders and arms, massaging his hands and fingers. I trace patterns along his chest that only I can see. I make Fibonacci spirals until he moans. "_Bones._" And I have only an instant's warning, in the contraction of the muscles of his stomach. And then in one quick move, he straightens from his relaxed slump and pulls me even tighter against him, one hand slipping down my back to cup my ass and one in the middle of my back. He opens his mouth against my neck and when I feel the wet heat of it against my skin, I can't help but arch against him convulsively. It occurs to me that I might have expected him to flip our positions, for him to want to be over me, dominating. Instead, he stays under me, but there is no question who is in control. He slams my hips down and thrusts up, and my lower body bears down hard against him. Nothing has ever felt better than the way my breasts press and rub against his chest. I can feel the heat radiating from his naked torso through the thin cotton of the T-shirt I wore to bed and his mouth is still moving on my neck, kissing and sucking and even licking until he reaches the hidden place behind and below my ear, and I moan, slow and long, breathing out desire as I melt into him.

He licks behind my ear and then sucks my earlobe into his mouth. I can smell him and my whole body feels hot. His lips trail along my jaw until he reaches my chin, which he sucks a little in imitation of me the day before. I flush at the memory, at the reminder. And then, then, he tilts my head and our mouths are open and grasping against each other. And no one is watching or nearby. There are no sounds other than the ones we make, just for each other. He doesn't touch me other than to hold my face as we kiss and my hands rest against his shoulders, gripping them. Too soon, Booth brings the kiss to an end, slowing and finally holding my lips still with his, pressed closed but soft against mine. For long moments, we breathe each other's air with our lips and foreheads touching.

Suddenly, I am sitting on the couch and he has risen, all animal grace and beautiful body as he rises and puts his shirt back on. He holds out a hand and I take it. Booth pulls me to my feet and we walk hand in hand to the door. He turns to me one last time. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bones. Okay?"  
"Okay." I say. I don't know what else to say.

He presses one last hard kiss to my lips and he's gone, closing the door behind him. How many times has he left my apartment late at night like this, me locking the door behind him? My brain insists on calculating...on average twice a week for the last two years, once a week for the two years before that, and then an extra 12 for the two years before that...approximately 220. Including holidays, and accounting for more this year, maybe as high as...284 which is interesting because the factors of 220 add up to 284 and the converse is also true, making them an amicable pair...I am procrastinating. I sigh and sit back down on the sofa. Math won't help me now.

I am...surprised, maybe hurt, and a little angry that he just walked out on me. As I breathe in the quiet of the apartment, though, I realize that mostly I feel…_wonder_. I am amazed to be...here, at this place, where I can kiss Booth almost openly, and he kisses me back. He left, quite abruptly actually, and was upset today about something I am not sure of, but I think has to do with his past as a sniper and Broadsky's past as a sniper, and now of course because Broadsky invaded his home. Nevertheless, he came to _me_ tonight, and his positive response to my nearness is incontrovertible. I feel his absence acutely, the loss of his warmth and the frustration I feel in my body are palpable but still... I also feel light and surprised and...fortunate, that we may finally get to be together in this way. Right now. Our moment. Hard won and not at all the work of fate. _Ridiculous_. I snort. And then laugh a little, because I snorted.

Rising finally, I check the door, turn out the light, and crawl into bed, sure I will be awake for hours, but instead I am asleep almost instantly, lulled by the impression of sound and touch that his body has left on mine. Like falling asleep after a day on the water, the waves a part of my blood, the rhythm of the sea a constant in the uncertain affairs of the day.

**A/N** The lotus eaters live a life of perceived ease, as the drug takes their cares away, and Tennyson brings this to life. I like the poetry, so I quote it here, and while it is sad, I do feel that Booth and Brennan choose every day where they "stand" and they often choose lonely, precarious places. But they do it together now, and with some other equally hardy souls, and they do not choose the easy way, the gamble, the muffled safety of intellect, the heady but shallow artist's choice, or blind outrage.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** This is a short one but please note the rating change to M.

I want to say thank you to everyone who has read Peloponnesian War or Baby on the Beach. Everyone who has favorited me or the story, followed me or the story, and especially those of you who have reviewed it. I know that it is two extra steps, to write something when you have just been happily reading (whatever you felt about the story) and also to express your feelings and thoughts on a story in a way that is meaningful to you or the author or both of us. Reading the reviews (shamelessly over and over again!) is incredibly rewarding. Know that you make a difference to me. To quote Elizabeth Bennett: you "could not have bestowed [your] kindness on a more grateful object." (Ew, I've compared myself to Mr. Collins...) Thank you, as always, to the three women who beta my work. I appreciate your time and attention.

Michele

* * *

Homecoming

You came. And you did well to come.  
I longed for you and you brought fire  
To my heart, which burns high for you.  
Welcome, darling, be blessed three times for all the hours of our separation.

Sappho, B.C. 625-570

* * *

When I wake, it is close to 3am. I slept almost five hours after Booth left. Slipping from bed, carefully managing the anger that rushes through me at the thought that Booth left me after kissing me, I deliberately put on lace underwear, a matching lace bra, low rise jeans, a low cut black stretch T, and boots. My breasts are prominently displayed. One time when I went out with Angela, I dressed in similar attire and she called me "smokin'" which was her way of saying I could have sex with a wide variety of partners, if I chose. I did not choose, but liked the outfit.

Driving to Booth's apartment along the dark, sparsely populated streets of D.C., I consider and discard the possibility of just slipping into bed with Booth. Appealing as the idea is,

_the sheets cool against my naked body, I pull back the covers and slip right up against him, having dropped my clothes on the living room floor before walking naked into his bedroom,__my left leg stretching over his, my arm caressing his chest, his nipples, the soft skin under his arms, and I kiss him, wet open-mouthed kisses that press, hard, against his adam's apple and throat, along his jaw until I inhale deeply under his ear,_

it is completely impracticable—Booth's chronic insomnia (in my opinion a side effect of PTSD) and sniper training would alert him to an entry into his apartment even if he hadn't put the chain on the door when he locked up for the night which was unlikely given his surprise visitor this evening. I would have to confront the man head on.

_Booth wakes completely and suddenly, and his hand is full of my breast and I'm riding his leg. His hand unerringly threads itself forcefully through the hair at the nape of my neck and pulls my face to his. His mouth is devouring mine. "Bones…what the-kiss-fuck. Oh shit.-kiss- What— ohhhhhh-kiss-kiss-kiss-shit what are you-kiss-fuck oh oh oh fuck oh…"_

I consider the facts as I drive. He found me on the jogging trail in the park, suggesting we spend time together. At the lecture, we engaged in what I now conclude was flirting, ending in both hand-holding and kissing, not to mention the veiled invitation to go elsewhere to presumably continue our activities.

_I slither sinuously on top of him, still covering his mouth with hungry open-mouthed kisses which he seems helpless not to return. And as I force his mouth open wider and my tongue probes deeper, I grip and push his boxers down as far as the reach of my arms and slide down his body, arching and rolling my hips just once so that_

At this point, we pick up the case, Broadsky is involved, and Booth gets squirrelly with me (thank you, Angela, for being the voice in my head) when we talk about Broadsky's motive and background. I conclude that based on the fact that his irritation grows during and after our conversations, I must be saying something that irritates Booth. That said, he responded to my overture in the car and was just as protective as ever during our investigation of Paula Ashvalt's hunting cabin.

_his cock, his big hard Booth cock, his overprotective loving angry Booth cock spears me, all the way to the very core of me, slamming...hard. I cry out in disbelieving pleasure. Booth bucks up as if trying to shake me off. _

The fact that he didn't call me today (yesterday, now) and that I had to seek him out at the gym is yet more evidence that he is creating space between us. His pointed refusal to engage me at the gym is consistent with this theory and his relentless workout seems to indicate that he was working out physically something that he was feeling emotionally.

_But he is not, in fact, trying to buck me off because his hands are gripping my hips, holding me to him. His body bows back violently. He holds my hips harder, sliding the palms of his hands around so that they stroke between my asscheeks, down between my legs, fingers stroking the soft sensitive skin, stroking the wetness of my pussy from behind. _

Nevertheless—and I feel elated when I think this—when Booth was threatened last night, when he felt that his family was threatened, he not only included me at the top of the list of people he was worried about, he also sought me out for his own comfort and reassurance. I have only a small amount of evidence for this claim but it seems to me that the fact that he left last night might constitute some of it. Before our impromptu make-out session, he pulled me onto his lap for no obvious reason other than mutual soothing.

_I moan and almost give him what he wants-me, frozen and shuddering; him, on overload from the pleasurable sensations pulsing through him, trying to prolong our pleasure, trying to gain control. But I am still rolling my hips slowly, around and around and up and down, grinding against him, and I refuse to give him control this time, seeking not only my own pleasure but driven to drag his from him as well_

I think that perhaps that is why he left. He is angry, in general. He is angry-irritated at least-with me but however unsettling it always is to my equilibrium when he is upset or angry or hurt, he is not pulling away from me physically. Even tonight, it was clear that he wanted me. I don't know why he left with the level of certainty I like to establish, but I know that he didn't leave because he was rejecting me.

_and he is talking, talking, and I wouldn't have guessed that he was a talker during sex but it is just as hot as everything about him. "Fuuuuuck! Bones oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck whatareyoudoing Bones oh God I don't want to oh god Baby Baby Baby, stop, Baby slow down, Bones, Bones, honey, nooooo, oh god, baby, yesssss-"_

Pulling into a parking spot across from his apartment, I am glad that the drive is over. Multi-tasking is killing me.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones

Thank you to everyone who is reading this story. It is a thrill every single time someone favorites me or the story, and it is an extraordinary feeling to have my writing reviewed. Those of you who post reviews should know how important they are to the writer, to me. Thank you. Thank you, as always, to the three women who beta this story. Finally, a special thank you to jmbatt for her honesty and for providing me with necessary context. I appreciated it. Best wishes, Michele

* * *

"of all stars the most beautiful"

"when all night long  
it pulls them down"

"you burn me"

-fragments of the poetry of Sappho

* * *

Walking into Booth's building, I can identify the smell of wet ceramic tile, the metal of the infrastructure and elevator, and the muted odor of cooked food. I wonder what early risers or insomniac tenants of the building think when the elevator cranks to life in the dark hours. My body is vibrating with a mixture of emotions, but somehow, that mixture has become a compound: rather than roiling as a stew of disparate feelings, they have bonded in such a way that an entirely new, but unified, emotional context has emerged.

Anger. Anger that I don't understand Booth the way I want to, that he can't be mastered like a new language. I'll never understand every time he's angry with me, or even every time I please him. And yet, I also feel…confident, secure, that I understand him in a way that pleases him, that no one else understands him. I often do the right thing, say the right thing, and part of what makes it the right thing is that it is me. I don't know how it makes logical sense, but this is supported by so much evidence that perhaps I will penetrate the internal logic after more consideration.

In the last several days, I have made decisive physical advances toward Booth despite the apparent tension between us, and he has responded. It seems that he trusts me. Booth has always made me feel valued beyond my intellect. But in the last couple of days, even as we are not entirely in sync in our professional opinions, he has deferred to me physically.

He trusts me, and also, Booth is happier when I am with him, when I am the squint to share our findings, when I am the one in the passenger's seat, when I am the one to see him hurt or lose control. When he sees me, he seems lighter.

When I see him, I burn.

A feeling of calm spreads through me, of time and more time. I reach a hand out, having exited the elevator and arrived at his door without being aware, and wonder how long I have been standing there.

When Booth comes to the door, he's...half. Half awake and half naked. I don't know what I thought he'd be wearing, but a t-shirt at least. I can't help it. I see his bare stomach and I swear I can't help it. I meant to talk to him, to have the conversation we have both been avoiding. But, he doesn't have any clothes on, other than a pair of athletic shorts that he obviously just pulled on. I step into the apartment as he rubs and pinches his eyes, and place my open palms on his stomach, stroking the smooth skin, the muscle tensing underneath. I fan my hands out wide and stroke up his chest. His rubbing hand drops convulsively down to grip my hands, stopping their progress.

"Bones?"

The calm is still with me, despite my giddy impulsivity, and I tilt my head back to look up at him, allowing my eyes to briefly meet his before letting them wander to his lips, and I pull one hand out from under his to touch them. I can feel his hot, still slow, sleepy breath on my finger tips. And my glance shifts down his neck and I stroke his chin, around and down in one smooth, featherlight stroke to the hollow of his neck, where I can see the pulse in his throat beating hard. He groans and tilts his head back slightly, baring his throat. He corrects this involuntary reaction to my touch almost immediately, taking my wandering hand and returning it to the other, squeezing them still and glaring at me a little.

"Bones..." he says warningly.

I think about biting him, hard, like an animal, with all my teeth. Instead, I lean forward slowly, glancing upward to meet his eyes, and I kiss him. I press my mouth to his deliberately, letting my hands slide upward to hold the sides of his jaw, my thumbs stroking the soft skin of his neck. For a few moments he is passive, my kiss unreciprocated, but then as always, Booth gives me what I want, his resistance falling away, kissing me back, letting me taste his sleepy mouth, heavy with the tang of a man, this man. We kiss each other in big, passionate, open mouthed gulps of lips and tongue.

"Mmmm." I murmur against his lips, "You taste good, Booth."

"Yeah?" he says, with a little groan and tilts his head a little for better access. "Bones?"

"Yes?" I soften and let him press into me; I can feel his erection through his shorts against my leg and I can feel the hot streams of air against my face as he breathes through his nose.

"Not that I'm complaining," He whispers low and harsh against my mouth, between kisses, despite the fact that we are alone, "but what are you doing, what are we doing?" His fingers twitch and ease under my shirt a little and I use his distraction to suddenly kiss him harder, pushing, and he steps back a step, like a dance partner taking his cue. And, I follow him, step for step, casually hooking a foot around the still open door and swinging it shut behind me. I stumble a little, though, because of my momentum and as he catches me by the elbows, I hold onto him for support. We stand for a moment, each of us gripping the other's elbows and I calm my racing heart, looking up at him, as he looks down at me.

"Hi." I say softly, surprised at myself. Not what I had planned to say.

"Hi." he answers back, smiling a little, thumbs rubbing little circles on the sensitive insides of my forearms.

"May I come in?" I continue.

"Aren't you in already?" His smile broadens.

"Well, yes. But I should have asked." I say.

Booth's face gets serious again and his hands squeeze my arms a little. "Bones, you don't have to ask. You can always come in. Are you sure though, that you want to be with someone like me?" He sounds bitter, and I'm a little surprised to be having a conversation like this so quickly, with him referring to a relationship between the two of us, when almost everything we have said to each other since this case started two days ago has been so heavy and loaded.

I try a vague response. "What do you mean, someone like you?"

Booth is immediately frustrated again, irritation and anger back in his eyes. He lets me go, runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. He turns and walks away and when he doesn't hear me follow him, he turns back, his form shadowed in the doorway, the small table lamp he switched on spreading only a small amount of beautiful amber light in the hallway between us.

"Come on, Bones." he says, but it doesn't sound like an invitation. I don't know what it sounds like, but his voice is low and dark and resigned.

I am silent a moment, trying to see his face and eyes, to read his body language, but I can't, it's too dark, and it is with a feeling like jumping, jumping with my eyes closed into the water far below, that I step toward him once again. He turns on several lamps in his living room, and I can see his back retreating into the kitchen.

"Do you want something to drink?" His voice is raised a little from behind the partition.

"If you are."

He returns with two open bottles of beer, and stops suddenly when he sees me, face hard and eyes burning. "What are you wearing?" he demands, long fingers steadying the necks of the beers as he places them on one of the side tables and takes a step toward me. "Where have you been, Bones?" Again, he's angry, and also, now he's accusing me. And I know this one. I know what's bothering him this time. He thinks I've been out at a bar, or dancing, or with Angela, and that my sexy costume, smokey makeup, and loose hair, are a sign that I have come to him from such a place, where maybe men have asked me to dance or bought me a drink, and maybe I have said yes and maybe I have been drinking and maybe I'm a little drunk. I know. I know this one and that gives me the courage to start the conversation. I step forward quickly, meeting him in the middle and reach past him to grab one of the beers, the distance making me a stumble a little, again, and causing him to steady me, again, and allowing me to rest my hand lightly on his chest as I raise the beer to my mouth and take several long, cool swallows. I hold the beer in my right hand, and lean into my left a little more, almost resting against him.

"Booth." I state calmly, not stepping back, refusing to step back, enjoying how close I am to him. I can see the golden tone of his skin, see the nighttime whiskers on his face. I look up, blinking, almost too close to focus my eyes. "A few minutes ago, when you kissed me, did you taste any alcohol on my breath?"

His eyebrows draw together, but the small lines around his eyes relax a little, "No." he admits.

"I came from home." I say simply. "I dressed for you."

He looks confused, and tentatively, he looks down, eyes lingering on my cleavage. Leaning into him like I am, it's about all he can see. He reaches out and gripping my hips, pushes me away a little and takes his time looking at my body. This should make me uncomfortable, but I am done hiding. He glances at me, checking, but I just keep my gaze steady and open. Looking down again, his eyes trace the strip of my belly that my cropped shirt reveals above my low rise jeans. I can almost feel his eyes tracing my shape and again, resting on my breasts. I raise the beer to my lips again and drink, knowing he is watching my throat, and I sway a little. He moves closer and his hands grab hold of my sides, rubbing from my waist up to my breasts, thumbs stroking the undersides. I lean a little more toward him, remembering this little trick from the lecture hall a few days ago, and he obliges me, lightly tickling the undersides of my breasts with his permissive fingers. Having drained the beer, I drop the empty bottle to land and roll off the area rug, and I lean all the way against him, letting my arms snake around him and laying my cheek against his chest. My forehead rests gently against his neck and after one last surreptitious squeeze of my breasts, his arms slide around to pull me close, hands slipping under the edge of my shirt to rest against the small of my back. His hands don't stop moving, though, and continue to stroke and tickle as I speak against his throat.

"I am of two minds about something."

He sighs a little, as if to say that he's not surprised, and answers, "Yeah?"

Breathing so close to his naked skin, resting my cheek against him, reveling in the awareness of his hands on my lower back, all these conspire to distract me. "Yes." I pause. "I want to ask you why you are mad at me," he tenses, "but I have also come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter." He tenses further and shifts his hands to push away from me. I lock my hands together and squeeze up against him. He'll have to actually pull me away physically to get me to let go. I can feel his frustration, but he understands me and stills.

"I know I have said things that upset you. I want to know what they are; I _do_. But I also know that I don't want to let one more misunderstanding get in the way of us being together. When you found me in the park the other day," I lift my chin and lean back a little to see his face, "you started something, broke something that was holding us apart. At least, for me that's what it felt like." I swallowed, nervous, but at the same time, I can't help but be aware of the scent of him, our lower bodies pressed together tightly, the heat pouring off his naked skin in the cool room. I swallow and venture on to my idea.

"Booth, I will have any conversation you want to have with me about why you are upset but on two conditions." His eyes, almost black in the dim light, glitter at me. "First, I'll answer any question, but I then I get to ask one. Second, as we do this, you don't let go of me and I don't let go of you. You can't push me away physically, even if you are still angry, even if your words are angry. And of course, the same condition holds for me." He starts to speak but I cut him off. "I think, I think I often get it wrong-at least at first-in conversation, but I think I know how to communicate, we know how to connect to each other, physically. Can we...try?"

"Bones," he groans, tipping his head back again in exasperation. "I can't think when you are touching me..."

I tighten my hands around him, hugging a little. "Please?" I say, hopeful.

He looks down at me for a long minute and I am absorbed in how beautiful his eyelashes are. Spiky and masculine and feathery and sweet at the same time. When he speaks, his voice is still a little rough from sleep.

"Bones, I can't stand the thought that you think Jacob Broadsky and I are alike."

I take this as capitulation and let my hands stroke his lower back where they rest. If he is startled by me, he doesn't show it. "Booth, there are many similarities between you. Snipers are patient and exacting. You both embody these qualities." He stiffens, but I lean in and tuck my forehead against his neck, hugging him close again. "Why does that bother you?"

I can feel his exasperation in the stiff way he holds his body and he says, "It kills me that you think that taking a life means nothing to me."

Stung, I push away from him this time, "How can you think that?"

He grabs my left hand to keep us connected. "Bones, you can't walk away, remember? It's _your _ fucking rule."

I am breathing hard, angry now, but I don't move away. "Booth, how could you think I don't know the cost you pay every day for the lives you have taken? I've been your partner for six years. I _know_, I can see the burden you carry." I pause, and slowly reach out for his other hand.

"I don't know, Bones, it just seems that since this case started, you keep comparing me to Broadsky. We were friends once, but he..." his voice cracks a little now, "I don't know what happened to him. What happened to him? He was a good man."

"Booth." I move in toward him again, reach up and kiss him again, warm and firm, trying to communicate faith and intent and trust. "You are not Broadsky. You are a good man; you will always be a good man. Maybe Sweets can explain what happened to him, but I know you. I know you. And I trust you. When you doubt yourself," and here, I balk, because this, this is the new risk for me, "you can trust me. From my perspective, from where I stand, you are a good man. You can trust me." I repeat.

"Bones." Booth breathes out my name and pulls me to him, hugging me, pressing his face into my neck, shuddering a little, and my hands creep up under his shirt in the back, soothing and stroking. I feel wetness beneath my cheek against his skin, between us, and my mouth opens against the wet place, tasting my tears, his skin. Booth lets out a small moan.

"Why did you leave earlier, Booth? When you were at my apartment?" Booth doesn't seem to be fighting my "always touching" rule anymore, and when he straightens, he keeps one hand on my hip and uses the other to stroke the side of my face and cup my chin in his hand. He leans in to place small kisses against my mouth. I kiss him back, but before the kiss gets really intense, he uses his mouth to slow us to a gentle stop, his eyes closed, forehead resting against mine. I let my eyes close too as he says, softly, against my mouth, my face, "I don't know, Bones. I just...I just was so worried about you after Broadsky left. I had to see you, know that you were alright, but I was still mad that you seemed to think I was like him even as you, you..." His voice trails off and I feel him lift his head. Before I can open my eyes, Booth kisses them, small soft kisses on my eyes, the bridge of my nose, across my zygomatic arches, along my hairline, and then suddenly, he nips my earlobe. My eyes fly open and he grins, the relief he obviously feels at having his question answered and his fears reassured has returned him to his usual Boothy good humor "Bones, you haven't been able to keep your hands off of me!" He laughs. Affronted, I slap his chest with my open palms.

"Ow! Bones, that hurts!"

"Good!" I say, but still wait for my answer.

"I don't know, all right? I was mad and worried and then I was relieved and horny and I just thought somehow that I should go, that we shouldn't sleep together when I didn't know what you were thinking, not us, not when we'd waited this long, but then I got home and realized that I was an ass, that because it was us, I should have stayed. I should have made you talk to me, should have talked to you, but I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry, Bones. I'm sorry I left. I shouldn't have left."

He says all this in a rush and as much as he seems glad to get it out, and even as I feel the relief creeping into my body, loosening my muscles, I am aware that the tension between us has changed.

"Science is an inherent contradiction." I say.

Booth's face is so shocked, it's comical. I can't contain my laughter and I snort as I try to contain it and he laughs when I snort and then we are holding each other and laughing.

"What the hell did you just say, Bones?" he finally has enough breath to gasp out.

I reach out and turn him and push him hard so that he bounces a little as he lands on the couch. "I read a book the other day, called A General Theory of Love." I move to stand between his legs, and holding his eyes, which still shine with the glint of our shared laughter, I cross my arms and slowly but steadily pull my shirt up over my head, shaking my head so my hair settles silkily against my bare shoulders. "The authors say that science is wonder applied systematically to the natural world." Booth's face is now solemn; his gaze is intense and serious as he watches me. My nipples are hard and I can't resist touching them through the material of my lace bra; I circle them slowly, once, twice, and Booth's eyes darken and his breath comes out on a little moan. I reach behind me to unclasp my bra. "I don't want to wonder any more, Booth. I want to _know_."

* * *

Notes:

1. Sappho was a Greek musician. Her poetry is lyric, meant to be played on the lyre. It is also, in large part, missing. We don't have a lot of what she wrote although we know that she wrote it. I am not a Sappho expert. I went looking because I wanted something to introduce this chapter. We have some complete poetry of hers, but I found myself so interested in the scraps, just single words sometimes, of her surviving poetry. Here are a few pieces of her poetry that made me think of Brennan and Booth:

"you burn me" "as long as you want" "of all stars the most beautiful"

"I don't know what to do "but I am not someone who likes to wound  
two states of mind in me" rather I have a quiet mind"

"when all night long  
it pulls them down"

References:

A General Theory of Love, by psychiatrists Thomas Lewis, Fari Amini, and Richard Lannon, Vintage; Reprint edition (January 9, 2001)

The History of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides (Author), M. I. Finley (Editor, Introduction), Rex Warner (Translator), Penguin Classics revised 1954 edition

If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, Anne Carson, Vintage, 2002


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

A/N: Thank you all for reading. Best wishes, Michele

* * *

And when you appear  
all the rivers sound  
in my body, bells  
shake the sky  
~from The Queen, Pablo Neruda

"I don't want to wonder, Booth. I want to _know_." I unclasp my bra and let it drop to the floor. I stand before him, between his knees, topless in my jeans, and wait for his reply.

"All right, Bones. What do you want to know?" His voice is low, but now without a hint of sleepiness or strain. He is turned on, eyes glued to my breasts, hands clenching at his sides, and I am aware of the power latent in his body. He is at ease in a true military sense, alert and ready but far, far from relaxed. The memory of Booth pummeling the boxing bag, bench pressing weights, is not far from my mind. But I have power too. Maybe it's time I showed him.

I move my hands to hover over the snap of my jeans, just below my belly button. His eyes are fixed on my hands. I unsnap my jeans, pull down the zipper and slide the jeans down my hips slowly. Booth has to be uncomfortable; I can see his erection, straining against his shorts, but he doesn't move. Not a twitch. Jeans around my ankles, I step out of them moving a small step away from him, out of the shelter of his knees. His eyes sweep slowly from my lace panties to my belly button to my nipples, which I know are puckered and taut. I wait. Finally, he looks up at me. Holding his eyes I bend, hook my jeans with my finger, turn and walk a step to drape the jeans over the edge of a chair.

"Shit, Bones. Oh _Christ_." With his reverent whisper, I know he has spotted the tattoo low, low on my back, souvenir of a dig overseas when I was a post-grad.

I turn again and move the few meters back to him but I don't stop at his legs this time. I push boldly between them, roughly pushing his knees apart, essentially kneeling between them on the couch. The cushion dips beneath me and I let the motion rock me forward. My hands land firmly on his broad, beautiful shoulders. Booth keeps his eyes on mine, but one hand comes up to cup my hip and slides carefully around to touch the place where my tattoo is. Again, my body moves with the motion of the moment; this time, arching forward a little so that his careful touch becomes a pull, and my body sways close, oh so close, to his. I can smell his scent-soap, a little sweat, the remains of toothpaste. I want to _know _all the things I have always wanted to know about him, and he has given me permission.

_"Booth." _I breathe his name. I can say his name with all the desire I feel, so I do, and I kiss him, keeping my tongue sharp and licking into his mouth, resisting his immediate desire to deepen the kiss. Similarly, I let him keep his one hand on my back, fingering my tattoo, but when his other hand tries to rest on my other hip, I reorganize so it is laying back on the couch. "Booth?"

"Yeah, baby?" My body quivers and weakens _instantly_. I sway almost all the way into him, bring both hands up to cup his cheeks, and kiss him so deeply, I feel like I'm drowning. I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know I wanted him to call me 'baby' but the unselfconscious tenderness of it undoes me. Now I know and oh my god I don't know how I can hold back any longer. I slide my right hand into his hair and pull hard, causing Booth to grunt at the pinch. I physically draw his head away from mine. I am breathing hard, and so is he, his head bent back over the couch, mine bent over him, and we are only a centimeter away from losing all control. I pull back the tiniest bit and whisper my questions.

"What kind of language do you want me to use, Booth?"  
"The dirty kind."  
"Where would you rather I fuck you, on the couch or the bed?"  
"I don't care. Whatever you want, Bones."  
"Do you trust me?"  
"Yes, God help me, but _yes_, I do."  
"You'll do what I want?"  
"Yes, Bones, _yes, _just fucking kiss me already, let me _touch _you..."  
"_Booth_?"  
"_What_, Bones?"  
"Rip my underwear off."

He reaches out and tears the lace right off me. I chose a pair without elastic, so it doesn't hurt exactly, but the friction of the remaining pieces sliding down my ass and through my wetness causes me to moan a little. Again Booth shows unbelievable control, tense and ready but letting me take the lead. I revel in the awareness that I am naked, finally, with Booth. I can rub my body against his, and _will_very soon.

I don't quite trust myself yet with his lips, so I kiss along the shell of his ear and behind, licking and sucking my way down his neck. I stop in the hollow of his throat and nip at the skin there. Leaning back on my knees, balanced on the edge of the couch, his single finger the only thing keeping me from falling backwards, I lick and kiss down his chest to his nipples. I pull one into my mouth. Tiny and barely raised beyond the surface of his pectorals, when I suck and gently run the edge of my teeth along it, Booth starts to pant, his breathing audible now. Squirming in arousal myself, I treat his other nipple to the same. I feel Booth clench beneath me. I lean back, again relying on his hand behind me for balance, and reach a single finger toward him. Eyes drilling into mine, he is nevertheless aware of the progress of my finger. Just as I am about to touch his nipple, I pull back and reach down between my legs. I blink slowly, releasing his gaze, and when I open my eyes again, he is looking down, watching as my finger slowly, lightly, traces along the edge of the lips of my pussy. I don't dip in or push in at all, but my finger is glistening in the dim light, and I raise my hand. As my finger approaches his nipple, Booth moves, fast, and the next thing I know, my finger is in his mouth, and his left hand jumps from behind my back into my hair, pulling me to him. Me. To him. He kisses me, hard and just barely leashed.

I indulge for a minute, kissing him back, not really tasting myself but aroused by his arousal. He has taken advantage of my distraction and his hands are everywhere, mostly on my breasts. Kneading, stroking, pulling. I wish his mouth was on me, but then with his free hand, he jerks my arm up over my head and, curling his fingers, lightly scratches his fingernails down the inside of my wrist, sensitive inner forearm, elbow, inner arm until he reaches my armpit. He presses with his thumb, kneading the sensitive skin there, and then strokes the outside of my breast with the back of his fingers and nails. I go limp against him, my arm dropping to curl around his back, and we kiss so long and so deep that I can barely tell the difference between us.

"Booth?"  
"Yuh."  
"Stop. _Stop. _Just for a second."  
"Huh?"  
"Booth, do you remember when you almost kissed me?"  
"What?"  
"Do you remember when you almost kissed me?"  
"Which time?"  
"Anytime."

"Um. I kissed you that first night, in the rain."  
"Yes, but after that. When you almost kissed me. You did almost kiss me, at least once right?"  
"Honestly, Bones, I think I almost kissed you every day for the last seven years."  
"Just tell me one."  
"Bones, _now_?"  
"Booth, I want to know."  
"Is this what it is going to be like?"  
"Possibly. Probably."  
"Sometimes, when we came out of Sweets' office, you'd have this look on your face..."

Booth trailed off and leaned forward, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth.

"_Oh no. Nonononoohno...Booth." _Despite myself, I arch into him. "Booth, Booth, please..."

Booth mutters between steady sucking, electricity shooting through my breasts and body. "When-when you helped me fix the sink."

"You wanted to kiss me?" I am holding his head in my hands as he moves relentlessly against my chest.

"Yeah, Bones, I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to do this, suck your breasts, through that wet shirt. I wanted to take you on the floor of my kitchen. I wanted to kiss you when we had dinner together afterward and take you to bed and make love to you. I thought about making you so wild that you would beg to _give_me that fucking Dummies book. I thought about loving you so well that-"

"Hold on."

Booth mumbles something back, but I don't hear him. I back off his lap and he almost doesn't let me go, hands gripping me and mouth already starting to move again against my neck and throat. I pull myself free, still bent over and I hook a finger under his chin, pulling him up toward me. He leans up and our lips meet. As he tries to deepen the kiss, I back away pressing my fingernail up to catch under his chin, pulling him with my finger and luring him with my mouth. As he stands, I run both my hands down his body and feel his stomach muscles clench as he rises. I slide my palms under the elastic bands of his shorts and my stomach flips over as I realize he must have been sleeping naked. As I pull the fabric down, I run my nails down Booth's buttocks and press my body against his, curling my fingers between his legs, just barely able to feel the shape of his balls against my fingertips. Booth moans and reaches behind to grasp my wrists and pull them away. Now he holds them captive behind _my_back with one hand, the position pulling my shoulder blades together and stretching and arching my chest toward him.

Booth roughly palms my right breast and without any warning, sucks my left nipple into his mouth. I hear a desperate keening and realize the sound is coming from my mouth. I feel the pulsing and throbbing tension low in my belly and realize that I am so turned on that I am close to an orgasm. Booth lets go of my breast and kisses his way up my chest, still kneading my breasts with his free hand. As he presses his mouth, open and hot, against my throat he mutters, "Christ, you have the best fucking tits."

My body flexes at the graphic language and I pull hard on the hand restraining my wrists. When he lets go immediately, I think that Booth is always so careful not to hurt me. I wriggle enough to get him to raise his head and I catch his lips, tangling his tongue with mine as both his hands stroke my breasts and roll my nipples with his fingers. Again, I feel a wave of heat and arousal wash over me and I moan against his mouth. I snake my hands between us, placing my palms against his stomach, fingers pointing down, and slowly stroke his belly, dipping into his belly button, tickling along the strip of skin below, and finally caressing the seams of sensitive skin leading me down, down to fondle his balls. All this with his cock, hard and thick and long, pressed against my own belly, making me writhe against him, even as I scrape gently between his legs with my fingernails. Booth, for his part, is panting and as I stroke and press the base of his cock, he _growls_ and kisses down my body until he is sucking on my tits _another pulse of wetness between my legs as I think his word, his voice_. His tongue licks me, his lips leave a wet trail, his teeth mark me.

"_Booth_..."  
"_God, Bones, what now?_"  
"I want to know how strong you are."  
"_Christ, Bones, what?_"  
"Make love to me right here, right now, Booth. Not the bed-" I keen again as his mouth does unspeakable things to my breast. "Here. Against the wall, Booth. _Now. _That's what I want. _NOW, Booth-_"

And he _moves_.

Every time I saw him do pull ups. Every time I saw him subdue a suspect. Every time he carried gear and equipment. Every time I saw him break down a door or save me from a preternaturally strong psychopathic killer. Every time, I wonder what it would be like to have all that power at my disposal. If he could lift me without strain, how long he could hold me, if I would feel safe enough to-

Without any warning, Booth lifts me easily and tosses me up in the air. A little scream escapes me and I hear Booth's laugh against my throat as he catches me, both hands cupped around my ass, and he plows forward. My back slams into the wall, Booth still holding me up without apparent effort, lips marking my chest and neck and then we are kissing again and I am not holding back, nor is he. He tastes so damn good.

"Bones, you taste so damn good."  
"Mmmhmmmm."

I wrap my legs around Booth and squeeze, my wetness rubbing against his cock finally, and his heat and strength and scent all combine to overwhelm me. I writhe wildly, pressing and rubbing against him and he's moaning and trying to pull away a little, obviously on the edge of climax himself, and I press upward as my knees tighten even further and I am above him. Booth is strong and steady and I just _want want want_him so I sink down and rub myself against his smooth length. I circle my hips and shift until I feel the head of his cock slip eagerly between my legs.

"_Ohhhhhhhhhh. Booth._" My voice comes out on the moan. And then he thrusts up and I thrust down and we are fused together. For one incredible moment, just an instant, we stop, holding still, feeling the miracle of being together, of being us, together. But then I weave my hands into his hair, pulling mindlessly until he tips his head back and I can kiss him with all the love and devotion I feel. He's moving inside of me now and I come hard, a hoarse cry surprised out of me, but he is relentless and in control now, sliding in to the hilt, rolling his hips hard and fierce and I have never ever felt anything so incredible. I feel the tension building in my belly again. Our mouths still press, open and hot against one other. His hands are on my ass, kneading and lifting so that when he allows me to drop and he thrusts at the same time, the force of him reaches deep, deep within me. Now he is moaning too, in quick little bursts of sound, and it is Booth, _Booth_, underneath me, and I whisper "Booth?" not knowing if he will even hear me or what I want this time and he whispers back on a moan, into my ear, "_Yeah, baby_?"

With that, waves of pleasure wash over me a second time. I cry out and arch back against the wall, driving him deeper still. Booth grips my face again in one hand, the other easily holding me up, and whispers "Look at me, Bones, c'mon babe, c'mon now, my Bones, c'mon-". I open my eyes as my climax continues to wrack my body and Booth's face is right there. His eyes are half-closed with pleasure but intent, triumphant, and possessive on mine. "You're mine now, Bones. Don't you know that yet? _Mine._" And his own orgasm drives like a spike through him; I can feel the rhythmic pumping of his body and the waves of my own climax surge up again.

When I am aware of my own body again, I find that I am on the floor, wrapped around Booth, crying. Crying. Sharp, stinging tears of release and loss, and I feel Booth's hands stroking my back and I feel Booth's skin against my face and I hear Booth's words in my ear as I sob quietly into his neck. "Oh, Bones. It's okay, Bones. It's ok. Let go. I'm here. You're ok. Oh, my love, oh baby, it's ok. it's ok. it's ok. shhhhhh." The tears stop finally. I am disoriented but can't help thinking how utterly different this night is from all the ones before. I breathe in and out, still shuddering a little on some breaths. Booth's hand is stroking from the nape of my neck down my spine, following the little bumps and flares that my vertebrae make under my skin. Finally, he shifts a little, murmuring.

"Bones. Hey, let's get up. Go to bed-"

I realize suddenly that I'm a little cold, a little uncomfortable.

"Okay." I say hoarsely, and rise carefully, if not gracefully. And then Booth is standing in front of me and I am staring at his chest. I feel his finger tip my chin up so that I am looking into his expressive brown eyes. I see...I don't _know_what I see. But it is warm and open and...happy, so I let him cup my face and press long, soft, warm kisses on my lips. I feel his hand drop to mine, weaving our fingers together, and I let him tug me to his bedroom. I didn't think I could feel any closer to him than I did as we made love but crawling naked into a warm nest of sheets and blankets in a dark room with my best friend and lover might be my favorite moment of this day. As Booth slips into bed next to me, he hooks an arm around me and hauls me up against him. I settle into my favorite position, one leg straight, one crooked, lying halfway on my stomach, and hum softly as he nuzzles my neck and places small kisses on my skin. And then I let a warm tide of sleep rise up over me and sweep us both away.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you all for reading and for reviewing. I really appreciate it. I think there are two more chapters left in this story, after this one. Writing this has been exhilarating and terrifying. Posting this chapter no less so than any other! I hope you are still enjoying it. Michele

* * *

"The essence of mathematics is in its freedom." Georg Cantor**  
**

* * *

When I wake in the morning, Booth's arm is heavy across my lower back. Without opening my eyes, I know that sunlight streams in through the slats of the venetian blinds and that the clear autumn light is strong and warm. I can feel the alternating hot and cold patches on my naked back, the sheet having been pushed down past my waist. I can hear the tinny buzzing of Booth's alarm clock and know that it has been sounding for some minutes.

"Booth." I say as clearly as I can for someone who has only been asleep a little more than an hour. I vaguely remember seeing the neon 4:47 on the clock when we climbed into bed together last night. _Together_. I shiver a little when I remember last night. 447. CDXLVII. 3x147. 44 is the international dialing code for the U.K. and 7 for dialing a mobile number in the UK. Added together 15 or 51, subtracted -7 or 37, multiplied 112, divided 6 and 2/7.

"_Bones_," Booth grumbles and I hear the snick of the alarm being turned off, "_stop thinking._"

"Booth! How can you know I'm thinking? Also, I'm always thinking; everyone's always thinking. I can't just turn off my brain." I try to enunciate as clearly as possible, but I can't move just yet and the left side of my face is still mashed up against his pillow. At this thought, I sniff experimentally. I can't help but smile at the smell of him in the covers and hide my face in the pillow so he can't see.

I can hear the smile in Booth's rough voice as well, "Hey, Bones. Whatcha doing over there?" I feel him roll toward me and his face presses into the join of my neck, lips kissing and nibbling until I hunch my shoulders and laugh. He snakes his arms around me and I laugh harder, pulling them all the way across me so that they aren't brushing my ticklish sides. He settles his big body along and above mine and I feel small and protected. I sigh heavily and just breathe for a minute, as does he, and then I twist around so my front is pressed up against him, and my lips naturally fall on his adam's apple, peppering his throat with slow little kisses, up and down, up and down, only as far as my neck can bend in either direction. On the down journey, I can't stop myself: I lick the hollow of his throat and then suck the wet spot, gently.

Booth groans and sweeps his hand down my back. Again, I feel small-not a feeling I am used to at all-as his hand seems to cover much of the width of my torso before coming to rest on my lower back, pressing me into him. Without hesitation, I circle my hips rhythmically, squeezing his cock, long and very hard already, between us. Booth's hand comes up to rest at my neck and sliding his fingers into the hair at my nape, he pulls my head back and kisses me. There is something wild in this kiss; it is like a force of nature, like winter wind-implacable, relentless, and greedy. His lips are firm and a little rough; my lips feel swollen and hypersensitive within minutes. When every new lash of his mouth makes me whimper a little, he shifts his attention to my ears and neck, using the same application of friction and pressure to mark me, to raise the blood to the surface of my most sensitive places, until he draws more little cries from me.

I am panting, my moans high and breathy, and my legs are moving restlessly from the pressure building inside of me. I am aware, with something akin to shock, of just how aroused I have become so quickly.

Booth must sense it too, for now he moves his mouth lower, not kissing but sweeping his lips against the skin of my chest. Rubbing and stroking the sensitive skin with his rough morning beard, his hot lightly chapped lips, his nose, his chin. Over and over. Back and forth. In this way, he quiets my body in the effulgent morning light of our private world. Cushioned by the soft caress of what must be his oldest sheets, my entire body turns on the movement of his face along my chest.

And then he touches me. Without breaking the spell of his caress, long fingers push deliberately between my knees and begin their own stroking, from knee to the very top of my inner thigh, brushing breathtakingly lightly across the outer lips of my throbbing center. Once, twice, three times, he strokes up my thighs ending with light, sensual brushes between my legs. And still, he doesn't stop the gentle sweep of his lips on my body.

"_Booth._" I don't know what I'm asking for.

"Shhhhh." He whispers against my skin. "_Bones. Bones. Bones. Hold on, baby..."_

One long finger parts my fold and strokes into me just as he clamps his mouth around my breast and _pulls_.

"_Ohhhhhh._" I moan and roll my hips up involuntarily. He sucks rhythmically at my nipple and strokes in and out of my-

Two fingers. The sounds coming out of my mouth are wild and breathless. I can hear them even as I moan anew. Booth switches breasts and uses his teeth to scrape my nipple. Two fingers, inside me, stroking and twisting, and now his thumb, circling my clit with slippery carresses.

"Unnnnngh." I moan, arching my body against him, beyond words, but something drives me to them anyway. "_Booth_. _Stop._" My urgency must have communicated itself to him, and he pauses, looking up at me, fingers all the way inside of me, my wetness dripping off his hand, his lips shiny and his teeth clamped on my nipple gently, but firmly; his breath coming in hot pants against my breast. I can feel the hard length of his cock against my lower leg where he is grinding it rhythmically into me.

"I want you." The little puffs of air against my breast stop. "I want _you_. Please." My body curves back, helplessly; I reach out and tug on his biceps. "Please. Come _here_." He rises up over me, his eyes now locked on mine. "Please..." I hesitate but I am beyond shame or embarrassment. The need to reach him, _him_, not just his body, driving me. "my...Booth...my..." I can feel the thick head of his cock pushing slowly into me. "I...I... Booth!"

"_What_, baby? _What_, Bones?"

"If I am yours," I pull him into me with my legs locked around his back and he is suddenly _there_, driven all the way to the hilt in me and now he moans, loud and long. "then you...you..." I can't help myself and writhe under him, trying to get him to move. He closes his eyes and his face is contorted as he tries to maintain control.

He says clearly, passionately, eyes alight on mine. "Say it, Bones. Say it."

"Booth." He's holding himself up with both hands and his beautiful body holds an arc like a bow. He legs lie between my thighs and he starts to fuck me. He moves and all that power is focused against me, and I scream a little bit as he begins to forcefully thrust. Leaning down on his elbows, letting his weight become my whole world, he contorts his body so that he can still stroke into me and kiss me. "Ohhhh, Babe. You feel so good." His mouth is hot and frantic. "You hear me, Bones. I know you do. _Say _it."

The words come out on a moan. "_MIne. _You are mine, Booth. Ohhhhh. Oh no no no-" I am starting to come undone. Booth's mouth latches convulsively on mine as he pumps his release into me. I feel like I am flying apart, breaking into a thousand shimmering pieces.

* * *

"Bones?"

"Yes, Booth?" I turn my head and look at his profile from my pillow. He turns his head too.  
"I'm glad you came over last night." His small smirk at this teasing turns into a full smile. His eyes are full of light and we look at each other for a long minute.

"I'm glad too." I say simply. "Booth?"

"Yes, _Bones_." Still teasing slightly, he emphasizes my name, his name for me.

"I'm glad you came to the lecture with me..." His look of confusion prompts me to say, "the one on the Peloponnesian War." Even his nose seems to be smiling at me.

"My pleasure." He sighs. "We need to get up. I need to brief Cullen and you need to get to the lab. Maybe find me something I can use to bring Broadsky in." He sits up, rubbing his neck and I rise too, pressing my body against him and hugging him from behind. He clasps hand over mine and cranes backward for a kiss. "You want the first shower?"

"No." I say. "I don't have any clean clothes. I need to get back to change, so I might as well shower at home." I climb out of bed, steadying myself on his shoulder. "See you later?" I lean over and kiss him. He kisses me back, rising and pulling me to him for another embrace. I let the impression of this moment slide into a spot in my memory for later.

As Booth walks to the bathroom, I watch him, his broad shoulders and athletic behind well worth the delay in my preparations. He shoots me one last look over his shoulder, smug with satisfaction and awareness. I laugh, delighted, and the smug look vanishes, replaced with what? Something... I make a little face: _what?_He waves a little wave, not answering, but still smiling at me, "Call me later, Bones."

I pad out into the living room, naked, and survey the wreckage. Actually, there is surprisingly little wreckage, just my clothes spread on the chair and a scrap of lace on the floor.

* * *

"Hodgins says the fragments are titanium with some tungsten and other alloys."

"Yeah," Angela sighs, turning only slightly toward me, "typical bullet stuff." As she fills me in on what she has discovered by reconstructing the bullet casing. Fragmented into 154 fragments, she originally thought it was a ricochet but given the circuitry found in the deer meat, we decide that Brodsky was using a programmable bullet, something neither of us has ever heard of.  
An hour later, Cam, Angela, and I agree the bullet is more like a bomb, and Angela shares with us what she has discovered about the AM-40 smart bullet. The diameter of the bullet Broadsky used, however, deviates from the standard to such a degree that it is clear it was custom made.

Walking back to my office with Angela, I sense the change in the air, know that Booth has entered the lab. This awareness of him extends far back in our partnership, so far back I don't remember a time I wasn't intensely, physically, aware of him. I slow and turn, scanning the lab. Booth's laughter carries from where he standing, talking to Hodgins and Wendell. As my glance falls on him, he looks up at me. For the space of three heartbeats, we stare at each other. My heart is pumping faster, anticipation sizzling through me, and warmth is pooling in my lower body. I experience an undeniable urge to crawl _into_Booth somehow, sink into his body. The intensity of the moment abates; he smiles and hollers something up to me, to Angela, and strides toward the stairs.

Angela turns and looks at me.

"Oh, Sweetie, we need to _talk_." Her eyebrows are quirked in a question and her mouth is smiling and smirking, both.

I confirm her suspicions with my own look, nodding and smirking a little myself. "Yes, I believe we do, Angela. Breakfast tomorrow? No, lunch." It is, after all, a Saturday. I may be busy at breakfast time. "I'll tell you...almost everything."

"_Everything_, sweetie." She reaches out and squeezes one of my hands as the air twists and shifts behind me with Booth's impending arrival. "_Everything._" Her voice changes and I can feel Booth come up beside me, not close, but near. "Hey, G-man! Coming to check up on us?"

"Ange. Whatcha got for me?"

She smiles and turns back to her office, leaving me with my partner. "Bren will fill you in. I'm going to see if I can get a little more detail in the reconstruction of the bullet." In a swirl of perfume and ...well, _Angela_...she's gone. I glance at Booth.

"Hi, Bones."

"Booth." We smile at each other. "Come in. I'll tell you what Angela and I discussed."

Reaching my desk, I turn, and find Booth close and when he steps in farther, I can look beyond his shoulder to see that he's shut the door and that no one is visible through the glass. I have to tilt my head back to see him and I wonder what he's thinking. But then his mouth is on mine and I don't have to wonder anymore. With our bodies so close but not quite touching, it is one of the most erotic kisses I have ever had. No, not erotic, _intimate._It's hello and I missed you and I know you want to kiss me and I want to kiss you too and oh my god what I wouldn't give to strip you down and fuck you right here on the floor of your office. The kiss ends although our lips linger a little.

"Booth?"  
"Yeah?" _His voice low and sweet_  
"We're in my office. It is made of windows. We have a case-"  
"Yeah, Bones. I know." H_is breath, warm and familiar, on my face_  
"What are you thinking?"  
"I am having a hard time thinking when I am close to you." _His scent, starch and soap and shaving cream and coffee, adds to the pressure in my belly_

I think I hear a little sigh before he moves away but it is hard to hear over the rushing in my head.

As he asks about the case, Booth wanders, keeping distance between us. As I tell him about the reconstruction of the bullet, he picks up items from my bookshelves, taps on the glass on the small interior window, glances at the titles of books. He thinks that the bullet is too sophisticated for even Broadsky to engineer and construct, and he makes a call to have a likely arms maker named Winkler brought in. Snapping his cell phone shut, he looks at me from across the room.

"_Baby._" He says softly.

I'm glad he brought it up, although my traitor body reacts to the memory of last night and I think I hide it well. "Booth, you know I don't like it when men call women by names that infantilize them or feed into a culture of male domination."

"Bones," he says, having moved a little closer, behind the couch now. "You know that's not how I mean it. I thought you liked it. Last night, I thought you liked it." His head is canted to the side a little, slanted down slightly, and he looks up at me from below his brows, boyish and a little vulnerable somehow. I am looking for clues, as always, watching his every expression and change in position, deciphering.

"I did. I do." After a brief pause, I answer back with honesty. "Why do I?"

Fingering the back of the couch and shifting his restless body, Booth says "Well...maybe you know I don't mean it to belittle you, but because you make me forget the rules, forget myself. Calling you 'baby'", again the little thrill in my stomach, "or sweetheart or other names like that, it's...intimate, just between you and me. You know that, somewhere in that big brain of yours."

Seconds pass while we gaze at one another. The Booth grins, coming out from behind the couch.

"Or...maybe you just want me to dominate you." I'm indignant immediately and he laughs. "C'mon, let's get some lunch."

Walking over to the coat rack, he holds my jacket for me while I take off my lab coat and say saucily, "You know, Booth, you don't know everything about me." He smooths the cloth over my shoulders and as I go to pull my hair out from under the collar, I find he is there first, gently gathering my hair in his fist and pulling it to the side, "What are you-ohhh." I breathe out, body weakening and leaning back against him as his lips move on the side of my neck. "Ohhhh, Booth, what are you doing to me?" I whisper. He doesn't answer, too busy sliding his lips along my neck, my jaw, behind my ear. I hear him inhale and realize he is as attuned to me, to my scent, as I am to him. "Booth." my voice firmer, he pauses, but doesn't pull his breath away, "Just so you know." My voice is quiet but clear, because I have realized something. "if you asked me to, I would do anything right now. I would strip all my clothes off in front of you. I would let you fuck me on the floor, or bend me over the desk. I would ride you on the couch of my office. I would kneel and take you in my mouth. I would let you kneel, push up my skirt, rip off my underwear, and I would hold your head against me. I..." The words pouring out of me slow to a trickle, "I feel very out of control when I am with you."

Booth's head lands with a thud against my shoulder and I feel a shudder wrack his body as his hands grip my hips. "_Bones_, you can't just say stuff like that!" His hands tighten, kneading my hips, like he needs to grab on to something. "I can't walk through that lab now with the hard-on I've got. I can't kiss you like I want to. And I can't do any of those things you just said you'd let me do although I would give _anything_, and I think I actually mean _anything,_ to do them _right now._" His voice sounds strange, shaky, "Bones, I think you should go see Angela." His mouth has started moving on my neck again and this time the kisses are harder, wetter "go... tell her you're leaving for lunch." His hands are moving, almost reluctantly, jerkily to the front of my skirt, rubbing circles into my abdomen, inching up under my blouse, sliding down the waistband of my skirt. "Bones! Go..." I lurch forward at the command, ripping myself from his embrace, and flee.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

A/N: I am thrilled with the response my story has provoked. Even people who don't entirely agree with where I take things seem to keep reading. Thank you. For the couple of people who said they like reading author's notes, I will add a little more today, but obviously, skip over it if you don't want to read further. I keep thinking that maybe I should be adding more drama to the story…someone getting hurt or a crime or amnesia or something…but the natural drama generated from Booth and Brennan simply being allowed to finally _be_ together holds me spellbound so that another chapter is written before I've added any of those things. Oh well. The second thing I'll add is an image. Imagine a frost covered field at sunrise, a car idling on the verge of the road near the entrance to the weekend farmer's market, closed now, early on a Tuesday morning. That's me, on my way to work. I had to pull over THREE times to write so that I didn't forget. I hope it was worth it! Best, Michele November 8, 2012

* * *

On the car ride over to the Hoover, Booth is tense and uncommunicative; we stop for coffee almost immediately and he burns his mouth just as quickly. So impatient. One glance over reveals the muscle in his jaw flexing and clenching. I turn quickly to the window so he won't see the desire in my eyes. The muscle in his jaw, jumping, under my mouth. Under what circumstances though? Maybe he will let me bind him? A wave of arousal at the image of Booth restrained has me resting my head against the cool glass of the window. _Arousal_. The word is also used when someone wakes up, is revived or animated-a common synonym is _awakening_. The latter may hold a key to my lack of discipline or control where Booth is concerned. I do feel raw and exposed, and perhaps the concept of metamorphosis is not too farfetched. I don't feel changed, exactly; I feel...released from constraints, liberated.

I say to Booth, "What are we going to the Hoover to do? Interview the arms dealer?"

"Yep." He glances left and right quickly, changes lanes.

"Do you need me there?" This earns me a glance, an actual glimpse of his eyes.

"Well...no, I mean I guess not. Caroline is going to be there and she's scary enough. Why? You don't want to come?" I think that maybe I hear uncertainly in his voice.

"No, it's not that. I just remembered something that I would like to do. It can wait, if you need me."

"Well, if we get anything from the guy, I'll need you and the squints to be standing by, but otherwise...no."

"Let me out then, Booth, I'll catch a cab back to the Jeffersonian." Booth pulls over. I hesitate briefly before I get out and just barely feel the touch of his fingers on my hand as I lift it from the bucket seat between us. Startled, I look back from the open door, raise my hand in a small wave. "Call me once you have finished the interrogation."

"Sure, Bones. Sure." Our eyes are still locked and I haven't moved to close the door between us, the cool air rushing past me into the car. The silences between us now are awkward and charged, deliciously pregnant with sexual tension and the irrepressible urge to say _everything_ in this newly safe shared world of togetherness. I _knew_ the sex would be great, but no relationship I have ever had comes even close to the depth and complexity of the one I share with Booth. I am struggling to process everything I'm feeling.

_Oh fuck it._ I boost myself back into the truck on my knee and lunge at Booth, who catches me with a surprised laugh and then we are kissing, tongues and lips and coffee breath, me half lying on him, his arm supporting my back. I pull back with one last firm press of my lips to his, and he doesn't let me get away before adding his own extra kiss. "Jesus, Bones. When you let go, you really let go." His eyes are shining and he's teasing but his words warm me a little, to know that I'm not doing the wrong things. I smile back at him and wriggle away, sliding backward out of the truck, swinging the door closed and waving goodbye before hailing a cab and calling Angela.

* * *

Angela and I meet at the diner, a double order of fries between us.

"Okay…what was so urgent? Couldn't wait any longer to give me the steamy details?" Angela prods gamely, and, I hope, without any real expectation of _actually_ getting specific details.

"I need to know why you think I like Booth." I say baldly.

Angela takes this in stride, dipping a fry in ketchup and taking little bites. "Besides the obvious?" she says, chewing, "That he is the hottest man in the FBI? The greater D.C. area even? Sex on a stick?"

"Yes. Besides that." She grins at me for admitting it. "I mean, do you think it is just attraction, just sex—," she tries to interrupt, protesting at this, but I continue, "No, I'm saying this wrong. I mean, I know it is more than attraction, what I feel for him, and I have accepted that it is more for him too, but—" I trail off, frustrated by my inability to ask what I want to know, to _know_ what I want to know.

Angela waits but then says, slowly, "Well…let me say this. Maybe this will jump start our conversation. I think that you and Booth are both very serious people," she glances up at me, expecting surprise, I think, "He is every bit as pedantic and exacting and uncompromising and passionate about the law, about justice and moral issues, as you are. Oh, he likes to tease you about having some fun, and he talks a big game about cutting loose, but that's exactly my point. He is _intense_. He plays, but he plays hard and he plays to win. Whatever he does, he does well. He's like you, that way."

"He's not as dumb as he pretends to be, you know." I say, although I'm not sure why I say it.

"Oh, I know that, Sweetie. That's what I'm talking about. That is him being your partner better than anyone else. When you first started working together, you needed that. You needed a way to communicate and lecturing him on what he didn't know was that way, and he took it gracefully because he's not dumb and knows it, because he is a talented manager of people and knew that you needed it, and…I think it took me a while to see this but it is one more link between you…he likes to know things, to learn."

"I just…I want to do this right." I say, still struggling for the correct words.

"Oh, Bren, you couldn't do it _wrong. _ That man is so hot for you. He has wanted more from you and your relationship for a long, long time." She reaches across the table to take my hand. I have long since gotten used to Angela touching me, come to enjoy it. I can now admit that allowing her desire for physical connection to become a fundamental part of our relationship was actually me allowing my own atrophied but strong need for physical connection to grow again. She squeezes my hand, rubs my palm with her thumb. "Sweetie, just be _yourself._"

"Ange." I flip my hand over, squeeze back. "I know he likes me the way I am; I accept that. But I don't just want to be _passively _good at this. I want to be _actively_ good at this, being with Booth. I have an idea, but, I think it may…push Booth a little. I don't know, but I thought if I talked to you, maybe I would know better how to do what I want to do."

Our waitress stops by at this point to check on us, refilling our iced tea glasses and smiling at our clasped hands. "Nice to have a good friend, isn't it? You ladies need anything?" At our denial, she departs.

"Ange, last weekend, Booth found me in the park, on my run. Joined me. We had talked months ago about trying to be together, sometime, when he wasn't still angry, when I was stronger, less impervious. Although at the time it was clear, I think, that he was really the one standing in the way now, not me. I had admitted I was ready, that I didn't want to have regrets about things I had not done, not risked. I wanted a chance to see how it could be if we were together, romantically." If any of this surprises her, Angela doesn't show it, just listens attentively, a small smile lighting her eyes. "He found me, and we raced to the end and he invited himself along to a lecture I was attending that afternoon. He…_started_…things. I was surprised, but we went to the lecture and…" my silence obviously annoys her and Angela raises her eyebrows demandingly, "well, we kissed at the end of the lecture," Angela squeals softly and takes her hand back to wave excitedly in front of her. "Ange, Ange. Stop! I'll tell you all about it, I promise, but I don't think we have time right now." She breathes in and out dramatically and smiles the happiest smile.

"OK, Sweetie, but c'mon, just give me a little somethin'…"

"Ange." I lean forward a little and my voice comes out so low and intense, I surprise myself. "I have never _ever_ felt anything like what it feels like to be with him. I…" I stop but it is Angela and I can't help it. Because just like I can't seem to keep from touching him when we are together, I don't want to stop thinking about touching him when we are not together. "I can't stop touching him. He can't stop touching me. He kisses my neck, my _ears_. I got to kiss his _neck _and his _arms._ I have always wanted to do that." I admit. "I swear we almost had sex in my office an hour ago. I wouldn't have cared if the whole world watched. I am not sure how we are managing to be in the same room at the same time without attacking each other, and I…I…" Angela takes my hand again and her touch, coming, as it does as I am thinking about Booth touching me, just adds to the heat pulsing in my belly, and I gasp a little and pull back, as if she shocked me. Angela, eyes wide, breathes, "Whoa…"

"Horse." I say reflexively.

"What?"

"Never mind." I brush her question off and take a deep steadying breath. "To continue…Booth found me on my run and things…started."

Angela still looks giddy and a little stunned. "Did he show you his plumage?" she jokes.

"What? Oh, too literal. No, but now that you say that, I think I would say that rather than show me his plumage, he…bared his throat." We both fall silent, considering what it means for Booth to make himself vulnerable. I think about the way he let me touch him, in the lecture hall, in the truck at Paula Ashvault's cabin, in his apartment. "He has made himself…vulnerable to me…physically…" I trail off.

Angela drops her head to the table, groaning, and then bounces back up. "Sweetie. That is _so_ _hot_. You are a lucky, lucky woman, Temperance Brennan, and I hope you appreciate it. I am not ashamed to say that I am envious and not a little turned on right now."

"_Ange._ Stay focused. I've been thinking—"

"When are you not thinking?"

I don't dignify this with a response. "I think…I think that Booth and I, we push and push, vie for control, and that maybe this has its place…like you say, we are both strong and intense, so our desire for action and agency, and our desire to be the one who acts, is part of our nature, part of our success as professionals and individuals. But when it comes to our relationship…I think we only really make progress during the times when one of us is vulnerable. We didn't really make progress, even in our professional relationship, until he told me about his experiences in war, as a sniper; until I shared my parents' disappearance with him. Every time we make bold moves or declarations, we lose ground, but when we are at our weakest, we seem to be able to move forward."

Again, I trail off but this time, it is with thoughtfulness, not frustration. I am finally getting at something important. My brain is familiar with the patterns that signify insight. Angela, extraordinarily intuitive and familiar with my processes, seems to grasp this and waits patiently.

"So when I say I want to do this right, I think what I'm saying is I would like to move us forward, but I believe that something that would be characterized as action would be counterproductive at this point. I think that rather, I should bare my own throat, but I don't know how.

Angela looks at me with an expression that is unreadable and somehow penetrating. "I think that you will find a way, Bren. I _know _ that you will find a way."

We eat for a few more minutes in silence, lost in our own thoughts, until my phone rings. During the interrogation, Booth has procured a schematic of the space the bullet was designed to negotiate, and he needs us to provide him with a list of likely locations.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon and evening are busy hours, thrilling hours, and eventually, fruitless and disappointing hours. We identify the location of Broadsky's kill to be the women's bathroom at the Federal Courthouse and Angela is able to identify the one location from which the shot could be made. Once we are there, however, it becomes clear that Broadsky is not. Until I make the leap that the symmetry of the building means that the men's bathroom would be equally vulnerable, Booth and I are standing out in the open trying to catch sight of Broadsky.

Once we run to the other side of the roof, Booth locates Broadsky—his gun anyway—through the range finder and pressures me, as his spotter, to help him take the shot. He is only able to hit Broadsky's weapon, however, and despite the FBI and D.C. police setting up a perimeter and circulating his name and description, Broadsky eludes capture. The paperwork involved in firing his weapon, a sniper rifle no less, and other aspects of the case keep Booth at his office late. He dropped me at the Jeffersonian on the way back to the Hoover from the Federal Courthouse but it was late even then, and even I find it difficult to focus now, at almost 10 pm. I try to call Booth's cell but get sent to voice mail. Finally, I decide I'll try his office before going home to my apartment.

Walking into the Hoover has the feeling of a dream about it. I feel disconnected from the people around me. The anxiety and excitement I felt during the hunt for Broadsky has abated and a pounding desire to get to Booth has taken its place. It is as if, during daylight hours, working hours, I could convince myself that being professional, separate, from him was important, but now, with the sun down and under the cover of night, I know that he belongs with me. I am not tired, far from it. I feel energized and sensitized and want nothing more than to feel his body against mine. Again, everything around me seems a little blurry, a little less than real.

His office door is shut and the light are on. I knock and hear his voice call out, "Come in!"

I enter and see one of the office secretaries and Charlie seated around the desk with Booth at its center. Booth seems to be distributing follow-up work. He doesn't say anything to me, but finishes what he was saying to the others. I pretend this is normal and stand patiently nearby, listening. The main source of illumination in the room is the powerful desk lamp on Booth's desk, and the three of them look like they are gathered around a campfire, I think whimsically. They must have been there for some time, because in just a few minutes, Charlie and the woman rise and leave, greeting me as they pass. Booth walks with them, sees them out, and closes the door behind them, his big body close to mine where I stand. The clunk of the door closing in its frame of metal and glass fades into the dense silence, and Booth slowly turns to face me.

His eyes are so dark, the pupils so dilated by low light and desire, that they look almost purple. He raises his hands slowly, both of them, and his intentions are not clear. He reaches out and takes my face in his hands and crowds my body with his until I am pressed against the door, safe from the eyes of anyone outside. Closer and closer until his body is pressed full-length up against mine, and all I can do is watch his mouth get closer and closer until it is just a hairsbreadth away from mine. I watch his mouth, open just a little, and breathe his air. I raise my eyes from his lips to his eyes and that's when he kisses me, oh my god how he kisses me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth as he tastes me with hard, sucking kisses until we are both groaning with it. One hand slips into my hair and holds me securely, as if I had any idea of moving away. My body goes, yes, boneless, knees buckling, but his body holds me up with its pressure against me, against the door. Oh my god, he smells so good. I rip my mouth from his, but the pressure of his hand on my head means I can't move away. Instead, I slip forward, tucking my head under his chin, into his neck, and shudder as his hands slip around me to rub my back, pull me more firmly into him.

His cell phone rings, in his pocket. Booth is panting, breath coming in harsh gasps and his hands are kneading my lower back, the top of my buttocks. He pulls me tight against his groin and again, we both moan. The phone rings again.

"Booth." He growls into the phone. "Yes. …Yes. …I'll be there in ten minutes. Yes, sir. Thank you. Yes. See you in ten."

Booth lets his head drop against the door in defeat. I just breathe, feeling him against me, tense and aroused, one hand still gripping my hip. He smells good, Boothy…barely there aftershave, cotton that still remembers the iron set against it, the wool of his suit jacket. As if he heard me, Booth shifts his head slightly and presses his nose to the skin of my neck, inhaling.

"Talk to you later?" His voice is little more than a whisper.

"Yes." I whisper back not wanting to be the one to break our closeness. He leans in one last time, forearms and palms flat against the door on either side of my head, and kisses me, like a promise, and then pushes off the door with his hands. His warmth withdrawn, I feel cold, and step forward, away from the door, so that he can slip out to his meeting.

I take a moment to gather myself best I can, layering the illusion of calm and control over the shivering, quaking me.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you to TemperTemper for the "sex on a stick" line in last chapter. Thank you to broilthesuspect for the Mayhem reference and to Boneslenka for the nod to Bones' ears. To dharmamonkey for her responsive and thoughtful beta work and for her wildly generous support, thank you!

I'd also like to acknowledge the people who have written the story a review or have written me a note on twitter or a PM saying what they think of the story. Many of you have written more than once, and it feels really good to share my story, this particular vision of B&B, with others who cherish this world. Thanks...Aly-Fresh1, Becksbones, bluemuriel, BonesLenka, broilthesuspect, casket4mytears, Covalent Bond, dharmamonkey, delia84, Dizzy Ink, DWBBFan, EverythingEventually, FaithinBones, farchester, fluffybird, Frost1610, harper83, huronia, Jenny1701, jmbatt, jneakins, jsboneslover, kdgteacher7, Lliaaame, luckywynner86, maneu, missjhay, nertooold54, penandra, pnwer, Rangers042376, razztaztic , redgirlang, Robert Modean, RowdyRomantic, RuesSong, sarahlizlangas, SchwuppDiDupsi, speaknowbeloud, squintwannabe, tantemary, TemperTemper, thorteso, TwoBecomeOne, xhio, and Yatobu. Thank you. To those of you from whom I have not heard, thank you for reading my story.

Finally, to those who serve or served our countries in the military, those who offer up their lives and happiness to secure it for others, thank you.

Best wishes,  
Michele  
Veteran's Day November 11, 2012

* * *

There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
There will be time to murder and create,  
And time for all the works and days of hands  
That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
Time for you and time for me,  
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

From The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

* * *

When I get home, it's almost eleven and I'm tired. Hungry, too, so I eat some yogurt with granola and blueberries. One of the benefits of having a lot of money is that I can have fresh berries year round. I don't know if Booth will call tonight, or if he will come over, so after I finish my cereal, I take a quick shower, assuming that if Booth comes while I am showering, he'll just let himself in. When I get out, though, the quality of silence in the apartment is no different; I am alone and honestly, disappointed to be so. After a minute's thought, I put on silky lace underwear in case Booth comes over, but pull on a soft gray sleep shirt more for comfort than seduction. Fatigued but edgy, I turn off all the lights except a few by the door and pour myself a glass of red wine. I sit in the dark by the glass slider leading out to the balcony, looking out at the lights, thinking.

I hear the key in the lock and I can feel my breasts tighten, my thighs clench. I rise, turning toward the door, and put my wine on a side table. Booth is clearly visible in the mixed light of the foyer, dropping his keys on a small table. His eyes meet mine in the gloom of my corner. He holds his arms out, hands stretched toward me, palms tilted up, and rasps.

"Bones. Look at me. I'm a fucking mess. My hands are shaking." He makes a little motion with his hands and then raises one to run through his hair, making more of a mess of it than it already is after such a long day. "I'm a fucking sniper, for Christ sakes. I know we should talk here or something, but I just need...I need...Bones, will you just come here?! Please?!"

I stride across the room and he takes a few steps himself, grabbing me under the arms and boosting me onto the dining room table, pushing the chair on the end off to the side. He fists the cloth of my shirt pulling the bits trapped under me out and kissing me in lush, hot, forceful caresses on my mouth, his lips grasping and his tongue searching out mine while his hands rhythmically bunch the fabric against my sides and belly. And then he is pulling the shirt up and off me and his mouth is now on my breast, licking and tweaking my nipple and I cry out in relief and pleasure, head dropping back and my hands going to his shoulders, pushing at his suit coat. He shrugs out of it deftly, never lifting his mouth from my flesh; he must have taken his tie off before he came in because now I can run my hands over the white cotton up to the open V of the collar, feeling the firm muscles barely contained beneath. I can feel the wetness pulsing between my legs and as I think it, he touches me there, stroking lightly but definitively on the outside of the lace. I am so sensitized that I can feel his barest touch like lightning, piercing and almost violent. I moan and beg him.

"Booth. Booth. Please." He presses his thumb directly over my clit through the lace and I cry out again and again as my body throbs sharply against him. "Booth, please!" He strokes his whole hand up my body to my breast, watching as my body flexes and bends backward. He slides his left hand behind me, fingering the place where my tattoo is again, and he supports me on the way down to the table. He hooks a finger of each hand on the waistband of my underwear and pulls it down and off. He looms over me, eyes glinting darkly as he surveys me, spread out on my own dining room table. My naked behind touching the wood, my arms falling to lie open, palms up at my side. Even as I settle against the cool wood, my body bends and arches, thrusting my breasts toward him and seeking more contact.

"Jesus." He bends over me again, playing with my breasts and nipples with his hands and mouth. "You are so sexy. I just touch you and you almost go off. You like that, Bones? I sure as fuck do." I am moaning continuously as he touches me, talks to me. As he mouths my breasts and sucks my areolas into his mouth, he pushes and slides me up the table, just far enough so that when he bends over the table and rests on his forearms, his head is centered between my legs. I can feel his breath and hot as it is, it is cool compared to the heat and juices flowing between my thighs. Without any warning at all, I feel his warm hands running up the inside of my thighs and then both of his thumbs are rimming my opening and then pressed inside of me, his hands holding me open to his mouth. Oh my God, his mouth. Booth sucks my little clit with his lips, as his thumbs press and flex inside of me and I am suddenly right there.

"Ohhhhhh," I moan. He shifts his mouth to lick at the cream coating his thumbs and forces his tongue inside with them a little. I am beyond all words; I am made of syllables only, and when he lightly tongues my clit again and just begins to suckle, I come apart, silent now but I have his wrists in a death grip, making sure he lets me clench around him until I am satisfied. Limp, I slump down on the table. I feel him gently remove his thumbs and I hear the metallic rasp of a zipper and the clink of a belt. His hands slide under my ass and pull me down to the edge of the table positioning me so that…

"Oh my God, Booth...oh yes, yes, YES!" I shout as I feel the head of his cock pressing at my opening just before he spears into me.

His hands grip my hips and again, he speaks. "Bones, you're killing me. It's like I'm seventeen again. You are all I can think about. Kissing you, sucking your beautiful nipples, putting my fingers inside of you. This, being inside of you." And he begins to move, short brutal thrusts that make him seem almost angry but it is with wonder that I know that what I am seeing is desperation and need. For me.

"Booth." I reach out and take one of his hands, place it on my breast. He moans a little, moves a little faster, and starts thumbing my nipple. I focus on him, on the feel of him inside of me, the smell of his sweat, the taste of him. My body starts to climb back to toward the precipice. I take his other hand and bring it to my mouth, sucking his thumb into it, tasting myself on his skin. This, apparently, is what finally pushes Booth over the edge. He cries out and lunges forward, pressing his body down onto mine and thrusting into me, slick and hard and mine, coming with my name on his lips.

We lie on the hard dining room table, replete, naked, sticky, sweaty, and laughing. I think that Booth starts laughing when I shift, making a ridiculous squeaking sound on the table. I squeeze him and press my head into his neck, nipping him. "Not funny, Booth." I admonish.

"Ow! Bones, you bloodthirsty woman." He nuzzles my neck with his nose and it tickles, and I giggle and squirm, placing my own hands against his chest to push but accidentally reaching into his sensitive underarms.

"Argh! Ah ah ah ah…Bones! Stop!" And then we are laughing, great peals of giggles and guffaws and we're holding onto each other as he slips free of me and pulls me upright to lean against him. I slump forward heavily, still laughing and he staggers back. I lose my balance and topple forward. He just catches me but this all makes me laugh even harder and Booth actually snorts. We clutch each other and stagger around, me naked trying to get back into my underwear, Booth barely undressed, pants slipping down his narrow hips.

"Okay. Okay. Stop. Just stop." We stand in the middle of my living room holding onto each other, breathing hard, smiling soft.

He finally manages to button his pants but lets the belt hang free. I scoop up my sleep shirt where it puddles nearby and put it on. He draws me close and I let my hands rest loosely at his waist. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand.

"Tired?"

"I was, but now…I don't feel tired." I think about saying more—I'm so glad you are here—but I don't.

He presses soft lips to mine and speaks against my mouth. "Let me get cleaned up. I'll be right back."

I kiss him back and say okay.

Booth goes into the guest bathroom and I wash up a little and brush my teeth in my own. When I pass through my bedroom on the way to the living room, I check that everything is as I fixed it...clean, soft sheets, flowers on the bedside table, small lantern lamps glowing a welcoming amber on my bureau by the window.

In the living room, I pour him a scotch and retrieve my wine. I'm just settling into a corner of the couch when he returns, dress shirt hanging loose over his undershirt. Tonight being a night of giving in to impulses, I stand up and, halting his progress with my hand on his arm, I walk around behind him to slowly take his dress shirt off. I hand it to him and then pull my sleep shirt off over my head, knowing he's getting a good look at my breasts, which are heavy and round, with fairly large areolas. It didn't take long to figure out that Booth is a breast man, as Angela would say, and I feel my body respond to the knowledge that he is undoubtedly watching my breasts move. I take his dress shirt from him and button it up from the bottom while he watches, tense but allowing it. When I am covered, I can't help but sink my nose down to smell his shirt. Unable to resist touching me any longer, Booth pulls me into a hug. "Crazy woman." he growls, slipping his hands under the shirt and palming my breasts, making wide circles and pushing his palms against me rhythmically. I breathe out a soft sigh, almost a moan, and try to control my voice and body.

"As I think you know, Booth, I am the most rational of women." I lean all they way into him, increasing the pressure of his hands on my breasts, and kiss him gently, and then I slip away from his embrace and take my place on the couch again.

I think he's going to protest, but instead he takes a seat next to me and says, "I think you are an amazing woman."

I smile at the praise and hand him the scotch I poured him. I sip my wine, make a face.

"What, not good?" Booth asks, stretching his arm behind me on the back of the couch and resting his drink in his left hand on his knee.

"No, it's good. But I brushed my teeth." Booth nods slightly and takes a large sip of his own drink. I have my knees pulled up, but tuck my toes a little under his thigh and let my knees rest against Booth's body. The pleasure I feel at this simple privilege is extravagant. Just this scene—us sitting on the couch, having a drink, talking after a difficult case—has played out so many times, but now I am allowed to sit close, half-naked, and touch him. I reach out and place my hand on his forearm, feeling the soft hair and ropy muscle under my fingertips. In fact, I muse, there have long been a variety of indications that being with me makes Booth feel better when he is upset. I stroke along his arm gently and am surprised when Booth leans forward and catches my mouth. We kiss for long minutes, my hand now grasping his arm, his hand moving from the back of the couch to cushion my neck and head, fingers playing with the still damp hair at my nape. I shiver a little at his touch. When he pulls back, he stays close, very close. So close that I can see little flecks of light in his irises. I can see the beard he has grown over the day, the lines of fatigue and stress at the corners of his eyes and mouth. When I glance up, I can see that he seems to be studying me with the same intensity with which I studied him.

"Booth?"

"Yeah, babe?" I smile a little, despite myself.

"Cut that out. Not now." He looks unrepentant but doesn't argue. "I'm sorry that you didn't get Broadsky tonight."

His face falls a little, eyes worried. "He's crossed a line, Bones. He...when a good man crosses that line, it's harder to predict what kind of evil he can get up to. Harder even than predicting men who were bad to begin with. I don't like the idea of him out there, that's all."

"I know. That's why I'm sorry. I'm sorry too that you thought that I equated him with you. I don't think I explained myself very well and I don't know how to say it clearer than that." I am holding his hand now and letting my own much, much smaller one rest in his.

"Well," he says teasingly, "you can always use teeny, tiny words."

"Okaaaay," I say, leaning forward and stealing a quick kiss, "Broadsky is bad. You are good."

He smirks and shakes his head, disagreeing. "You don't believe in absolutes. You say it's all a matter of perspective, of where you stand."

"Well, then, from where I stand, Broadsky is bad. You are good." I smile at him and he seems unable to keep from smiling back. "I'm standing right beside you Booth. Right where I'll always be." I feel a little nervous with my declaration, but Booth kisses me again, hard.

"Amazing," he says against my lips, then sits back a little and strokes my cheek with his hand.

I say, "Metaphorically speaking, I mean, because we are, in fact, sitting."

"Well, that's good, because I thought we had shrunk!" he says.

That strikes me as hilarious. "That is very funny because it builds on our discussion of situational morality!"

"That's not why it's funny, Bones." He drains his glass, rising.

"Tell me another one."

He laughs and pulls me up off the couch. "What? No! It's not that kind of joke, Bones." Arms laced around me, he pulls me toward the darker part of the room, near the view of the city.

"Then, tell me another time you almost kissed me, Booth." I allow myself to lean in toward him, my hands on his chest, his arms around me.

"No, Bones, you tell me about a time you almost kissed me."

He leaves me for a minute to put on some soft music and then he's with me again, pulling me back into his arms. We're not really dancing, just standing, embracing to the music. I close my eyes and tip my head back a little, and he takes the hint or just does what comes naturally, and starts sprinkling little kisses up the column of my throat. The feeling of being kissed by him, his soft lips and breath, the tenderness in his caresses…it is all just extraordinary. Magnifying this feeling though, is the fact that he is kissing me openly, without any witnesses or…lines between us. I shiver a little and his arms tighten, protective.

"What?" he breathes.

"I wanted to kiss you that night that Dr. Wyatt cooked for us, and Sweets, in your apartment."

"Mmmmhmm…" He makes a noncommittal noise as he keeps kissing me but in his sudden stillness, I can read the moment he remembers that night. He straightens and presses me into him, rubbing my low back, slipping his hand low and under so that he can touch my bare skin, soothing me, soothing himself.

"Booth, it's okay," I say into his throat, for he has his other hand wrapped in my hair as he holds me against him.

"When? When did you want to kiss me, that night? After you told Sweets," his hand tightens further on my scalp and hair, "that you had been locked in a trunk for breaking a dish? Or was it after I told you that…that…that if it weren't for Pops, I might have killed myself?"

"Neither," I say, not responding to his words other than to keep hugging him. "It was at the end of the night. It was hard for me, to enjoy the night after…what we said in Sweet's office, but I did. Enjoy myself, that is. Dr. Wyatt is an excellent chef and Sweets, despite his unfortunate choice of careers, is an intelligent individual and our friend. And...I always like being with you; I always have." His arms loosen a little but his hands are still reflexively stroking my back.

"I realized that night that as bad as things get, they are always better with you. I have had to make other confessions, tell people things that it is difficult for me to tell, but until Angela—and there are a lot of things I still haven't told her—the only people I told were strangers." I pause, pushing back from him so he can see my face. I'm about to tell him something I never told anyone else. "When I was in that foster home—the same one where I was locked in a trunk, I was abused. Physically, and he was getting close to abusing me sexually. Eventually, my case worker noticed the signs—I actually think she would have believed me if I had told her from the beginning but I didn't, didn't trust anyone enough to tell—and changed my placement. I had to undergo mandatory therapy, however, because I was a ward of the state. And then, later, during my second trip to Guatemala, I was taken captive, even now I don't know who they were. During that time, I was physically tortured, but not raped. Again, once free and returned home, I was required to undergo therapy in order to stay on the team. This time, I refused, and found another position."

Booth's eyes stayed on me throughout this short speech. I hadn't given any details, really, and perhaps some people wouldn't consider that I had shared completely. I feel weak and sick, a welter of emotions roiling through my viscera. I lick my dry lips and hear the air rasping through my throat, my open mouth. I had never told another human being about what I went through, other than the two doctors I was required to see. The people who were with me knew, the abusers knew, but I never talked about it with any of them. Voluntarily telling someone else? Never. Anger and hurt and fear make my gorge rise and I think about retreating to my bedroom, sitting on the floor in the corner where I always go if it is too much—a nightmare, a flashback, a bad bad day.

"Bones." Booth steps back, puts space between us, but holds onto my hands. I can breathe a little easier already. He watches me, carefully. Not warily, like I'm going to run which I might, but almost clinically, like an expert. An expert in…me? "Bones. Listen. You can tell me more. You will tell me more. But you can do that later, if you want. What you've said, it's enough for right now, babe." He waits a beat. "I know you say you don't want me to call you that, but I have wanted to call you that, dreamed _God forgive me_ of you being hurt, or weak or frightened, just to give me an excuse to hold you, protect you, use soft words." His thumb strokes the palm of my hand. "Can you come back here, Bones?" His eyes are soft and pleading, but he doesn't press, doesn't push me physically. I stand and count breaths. At 21, the first triangular number, my inner world starting to be in order again, I step forward hesitantly and Booth still waits. I lean into him, gradually letting him take my weight. He doesn't hug me, trap me with his arms, instead takes my hands in his where they hang at my sides, weaving our fingers together. Not for the first time, I am aware of how perfectly our bodies align.

"So, Bones?" Booth offers.

"Yes, Booth?" I look up.

"Weren't you telling me about when you wanted to kiss me?" He smiles self-deprecatingly. I don't know how he does it. Part of his charm is his cockiness and arrogance, but he is also so good at laughing at himself, pretending he isn't smart and talented. Why does he do that? Why is it so endearing? I shake my head. Part of the mystery of Booth. I lay my head against his chest and breathe a few more times. I speak from here, my voice amplified by the fact that my ear is pressed up against his chest, but still the reassurance I feel at being close to him makes the inconvenience worth it.

"As I was saying, on the ride back to your apartment, I was…upset." I hesitate. "Not quite as bad as just now, but upset, and I was sorry that I had brought up what happened to me, especially since you clearly hadn't planned on sharing metaphorical scars in the way that I had. But you…you just always make things better. You once said to me that telling me things when you were upset made you feel better. You said it made 'no rational sense.' Well that night, I because extremely aware that the same was true for me. Yes, you joked around and cheered me up and made everyone laugh just like you always do, but you also had moments where you were a little quiet and…grim that evening yourself. Remembering, probably, like I was. There was a moment, in the kitchen, after Gordon Gordon had driven Sweets home, and you and I had finished the dishes, that I didn't want to leave. I just wanted to stay with you a little longer. You were very close to me as we stood at the sink, and there was a moment when I thought I would take the risk. That I would just kiss you and I wouldn't be alone with the memory, I would be with you. I can still remember what you were wearing—that dark blue shirt—and the way your hair was cut, the smell of your shampoo when you leaned in close to rinse a dish, reach across me to put it in the rack." I trail off, uncertain, and suddenly frightened. Frightened that I had done this wrongly. By making myself vulnerable in this way, I had just revealed my weakness for him, and I am scared that I shouldn't have interrupted the flow of this first unbroken night together by bringing up such heavy topics.

"Bones." Booth's voice brings me back to myself. "Hey, Bones, look at me." He nudges my chin with his hand. Reluctantly, I let him force my eyes to meet his. "You know what always makes me feel better?"

"Me?" I say, with an irritating amount of insecurity bleeding through in my voice.

"Well, yes, but also…physics." He nods playfully. "Yep. Physics."

"What? Why? I didn't know you like physics." I'm confused but can tell he's not completely serious for some reason.

"Well, I do. Especially breaking the laws of physics." And then, as I realize what he means, he leans down and kisses me. This kiss, _this_ kiss, is new. This is Booth offering himself to me, even I can tell that. This is Booth sharing everything, everything he feels. His mouth is sweet and open, tasting me and claiming mine but at the same time inviting me in. Our tongues touch, swirl. He lets me kiss the corners of his mouth over and back again. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth a little, tries the same with my upper lip. We both have things we have always wanted to do. He kisses my temples, and my ears. I kiss his eyes, his jaw and chin, scraping my teeth over them. I scrape my fingers through his short hair as I press my mouth more firmly to him, a little aggressive. He holds my head in his hand, his hand so big and warm that it seems that it covers the entire back of my head. Once he has me secure in his grasp, he, too, kisses me with more force, more possession. But even so, he then subsides, clearly enjoying my own possessive tendencies. This is Booth offering himself to me. This is Booth sharing everything he feels. This is love, even if he hasn't said it yet.

"I love you, Bones." His voice is low and rough and the words burn through my skin to settle, disquieting and precious, somewhere deep inside me. Not in my metaphoric heart, or my stomach, or even in the space allocated for it in my brain. Instead, behind and a little above my belly button, that place of center and calm now includes Booth's love for me.

"Oh, Booth," I say, unable to keep it to myself any longer. "Do you have any idea how long I have loved you?"

He closes his eyes and his face contorts a little, as if in pain, and breathes out harshly. When he opens his eyes, they are burning and if I thought he had shown me everything before, I was wrong. He showed me everything soft, everything gentle about his love for me. Now, I see possession and…something else.

"Mine." He growls at me, shifts his grip to tilt my face up more, forcing my head back. It isn't uncomfortable, and in fact, it is thrilling, to be known in this way. We are both in control and not in control; all the lines between us are gone—not just the one he drew between himself and me so long ago. And then his mouth is on mine again, hot and open and wild, and rational thought is impossible. His need for me is no longer secret and it drives him now.

"Take the shirt off, Bones."

I do, not bothering with the buttons, but just pull it over my head roughly. He reaches over to stroke my breast with his fingertips. Around the heavy swells of my breast, he traces circles, and then slips his hand around my waist to my lower back, pulling me into his body forcefully. His left hand joins his right and both hands stroke my back still lower until he is caressing the sensitive skin of my buttocks and I am starting to moan and rub against him. "C'mere." He grunts and lifts so that I straddle him and he carries me down the hall to my bedroom. He lays me on the bed as easily as if I were a child, but I am a woman, his woman, and he belongs to me. I let him know that with my mouth, with my body. He kneels over me, his mouth grasping at mine until I am flat on my back and two long fingers brush between my legs. He moans into my mouth when he feels the wetness on his fingers from the merest of brushes.

As if driven to it, he strokes his two fingers through my folds and his thumb strokes the base of my clit, caressing until I am moaning beneath him. I reach out and grasp his cock, my palm rubbing high and firm against its length and my fingers reaching down low to fondle his balls, stroke and press the base. He just grunts and thrusts into my hand, at the same time sinking both fingers into my wet heat, pumping into me smoothly until I cry out for him to stop, to slow down.

"No," he whispers harshly. "You said you loved me, that I'm yours. Do what you want with me, but do not stop. Please, Bones. Please, baby. I love you."

Tensing my legs as a signal, I flip us smoothly with his help, and I rise up, his fingers falling away, and then sink down on him, hesitating only briefly to seat the thick head of his cock where it belongs. With me. In me. Riding him, I press my hands against the strong ridged muscles of Booth's stomach, stroking to elicit more deep groans. I love the sounds that he makes, and I lean over so that I can run my hands all over him, feel his sharp little nipples against my palms, stroke the soft skin of his underarms until he bucks and moans. His hands on my breasts, he pinches and rolls my nipples, sending electricity shooting down to my pussy, now throbbing and tensing, trying to pull him even farther into me. Finally, I lean over so that we're pressed together, chest to chest, as I circle and press against him, as he drives up into me.

One last time, he rolls us and our bodies are slick with sweat and as close as two peoples' bodies can be, like puzzle pieces—cock and pussy, hand in hand, breast and bone. Booth and I surge against each other and the pleasure is incredible. "Kiss me, Bones. Kiss me." I hear the urgency in his voice, feel the tightening low in my belly that is the answer to it. I open my mouth under his and the world explodes as I come, clenching and pulsing around his cock, and as he comes, driving deeper and deeper into me until finally coming to rest at a place where I cannot tell where Booth ends and I begin.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones.

A/N: This one took a little longer to write. I hope you like it; I welcome your feedback and am always so excited and interested in what you have to say in reviews and pm's and tweets. Thank you to everyone reading and a huge thank you to everyone reviewing this story. Thank you to Dharmamonkey for her beta work. I find it funny that if not for her, I would never do my numbers right. I love numbers! Thank you too to Razztaztic for the help with Basketball! Without her, I wouldn't have been able to come up with a game that Booth might have watched around the time of the airing of Killer in the Crosshairs. She provided me with information for Booth and my husband provided me with information for Brennan. The characters of GB and BS are based on people I actually know.

I am grateful. To have eyes to read and fingers to type and a mind that makes connections and finds things funny and interesting. Even if things are not always easy-far from it-I'm lucky and I know it and I wish you all a very happy week, whether you celebrate Thanksgiving or not.

Michele, November 19, 2012

* * *

The long days and nights have caught up with us and neither Booth nor I wake until nearly nine. I open my eyes to find my face just inches from Booth's back. I distinctly remember listening to him snore at some point in the night, but now his breathing is quiet and steady. The sheet and blankets have slipped down so I can reach out and place my hand in the middle of his smooth, tanned, back. His body is quiescent but with the sensitive pads of my fingertips, containing some of the densest collections of nerve endings in the human body, I can feel the musculature just beneath his beautiful skin. He has a mole down low on the left side and I please myself by kissing it. Resting back down on my side, head on my pillow, I walk my fingers up his vertebrae to the base of his neck, and stroke lightly down with the palm of my hand.

He murmurs sleepily and mutters something that sounds a little bit like "_Bones_." Rolling back, I lay on my back and look at the ceiling. My ceiling. My bed. Booth in my bed. Next to me. I turn my head to check. Yes. Booth is in my bed. I think about kissing him on his neck. I let my eyes roam over the rest of what I can see. I think about kissing him on the ass, underneath his buttocks. I can feel heat begin to swell and pulse down low. _Give the poor man a chance to rest, Brennan_. Sighing happily (and silently) despite my apparently endless desire for Booth, I rise and head into the bathroom for a shower. I'll let him sleep. I am studiously avoiding thinking about what comes next today, or any day, but I can take a shower. Always a good idea. Unless, like Booth that time, one has been involved in an exploding Santa Claus incident, in which case, showering would remove evidence. Hmmm, removing evidence. My mind turns, logically, to undressing Booth after the Santa Claus incident and realize that I no longer have to wonder how his cock would taste. I can actually feel the smug smile on my face as I flick the faucet on and get the water hot.

Twenty minutes later, I flick the same faucet off and step out of the shower, only to find Booth leaning casually in the doorway of my steamy, apricot-scented bathroom. He has on boxer briefs but nothing else; I freeze and my mouth goes dry as I look at him. His acromia are as perfect as I remembered; he's so broad, he fills the doorway. I rarely read popular magazines, but he could be a model, his body is so beautifully shaped. Strong thighs, narrow prominent hips, flat muscular abdominals, tiny nipples, clearly delineated clavicles.._.Mine, all mine_, Angela's voice speaks clearly in my mind.

His deep voice pierces me. "Get up on the sink, Bones." _What_? I think, but who am I kidding, I heard him. I do as I am told, my body awash in hormones, my clit sparking and my nipples tense and needy for his mouth already. He slips the briefs off and tosses them aside, moving in between my legs and pushing up against me with his body at the same time as his hands reach around me to pull me sharply up against him. I moan at the press of our bodies and my head tilts back to maintain eye contact. There is no space between us. _Did I just obey an order? Did he just issue an order? How long was he waiting? Is my shower curtain transparent enough that he watched me shower? Does Booth in my bathroom mean that Booth is in my life?_A thousand images and words fly in and out of my mind but all are fleeting compared to the physical reality of Booth.

"Keep your eyes on me, ok, Bones?" He speaks low, intimately, into my ear, like he is sharing a secret, and then leans down to place a string of open-mouthed kisses on my throat, moving up until he reaches my lips but doesn't kiss me yet. "Okay, Bones?" he whispers against my lips, his eyes flicking from my mouth up to my eyes.

"Okay, Booth." I whisper back, so turned on I can't help but push and rub my breasts against him, even as I hold his gaze.

I watch him look down _his tongue comes out to wet his lips_. I feel his hands on my knees, sweeping confidently up my inner thighs stroking circles with his thumbs, _his zygomatic arches so sharp and kissable_, pushing me open dark _stubble on his jaw above his lip, sweat starting to bead there too_ and he groans. I feel the vibration and see _his adam's apple jump_ as he butts the head of his cock against my entrance and drives in to the hilt in one bold _desperate_stroke.

Because I am watching his face, I see him close his eyes as if in prayer. I watch his lips move silently _oh fuck_ and I can see his whole body shiver violently as he begins to move. His eyes are open again and burning as he watches the place where we come together. The juxtaposition of physical stimuli as separate from visual stimuli is incredibly erotic, but I can't resist and I look down myself, a wave of arousal almost _too much_as I watch his slick cock pull almost all the way out and then thrust back into me. My eyes back on his face I can see the words form on his mouth as my body bends and flexes in time with his and he takes me, exactly how he wants to.

"Bones, look at you. Oh my god, look at us. I have wanted you for so long, do you have any idea how long? I have wanted this since I first saw you but I didn't start dreaming of it until we started being each other's family. Sometimes I would wake up in the morning hard as a rock having dreamt this and sometimes, during times when you seemed so close to me and us being together seemed so _possible_ I would even wake up in the morning soft having come in the sheets like a fucking fifteen year old boy again. _oh jesus I don't know how long I'm going to last here, babe..."_

"Then _don't_ Booth." Again his eyes jump to mine and I grab his mouth, answer his moan with my own and a swirl of my hips. "Unghhh..." We are now beyond words and exist only in our bodies, surging against each other, mouths open. Booth's vocalizations start getting higher pitched and I know he's getting close. He rips his mouth from mine and continues thrusting forcefully as he bends to pull one of my nipples into his mouth, his lips covering as much of my breast as he can hold and tonguing my nipple firmly. When he pinches my other nipple with his fingers, I lose it and come, clenching and bucking against him, crying out. He continues to suck strongly at my breast until my body is loose and pliant, fluttering against him weakly. He straightens and pulls me right up against him-still seated long and hard all the way inside of me. He is breathing heavily and shivering a little from holding back. His hands cup my ass and knead reflexively, fingers curved, pressing and stroking me from below. The release from my orgasm is all over his cock but also now his fingers, as he plays against my opening from behind and below, slick and hot, touching me and himself as he continues to maintain our tight embrace, keeping us fitted together. "_Come_, _Booth_." His face presses hard into my neck, no no no, mouth open. But his hands still move, touching where we come together, and I can feel his cock jumping and trying to surge even deeper, where we are joined. "_Come, Booth._" His trembling increases; there is barely any friction, any movement, as he stays poised on the brink inside of me. "_Booth_." I lift my hands from where they grip the rim of the sink and wriggle them up to hold his cheeks and pull his face up to mine. "_Booth_..._baby_..._come_." I whisper against his mouth. And he cries out this time, pulling all the way out and impaling me one last time on his throbbing cock, moaning against my mouth, shooting hotly inside of me.

"Jesus, Bones." Booth mutters into my neck, still clutching me to him.

"Booth? Are you all right?" His choked laughter rumbles through me. "Oh Bones," he pulls back a little, kisses me gently, "I don't think it gets any more all right than this." I smile back as his smile presses against my mouth.

"I think I need another shower." I say, and he begins to carefully disentangle our bodies.

"Okay." He looks inquisitively at me. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Another twenty minutes later-it is _fun_touching Booth and being touched by Booth with soapy hands, bodies already replete-I finally get dressed. I have no idea what happens next. I need to call Angela about tonight; I have work that I would usually do on a Saturday; I told my Dad I would meet him for coffee later. But I didn't know, a week ago, that Booth and I would be...where we are today, together and sharing the last of my cereal.

"Booth? What happens now?" I finally ask.

"You mean, between us, Bones?" He pushes his bowl away and looks across the table at me.

"No, I mean today. I have some work to do and some other things I was going to accomplish but I could change them." He looks surprised.

"You're not..." he trails off.

"I'm not what?" I ask.

"Nevermind." He smiles and says, "I don't know, Bones. I don't have Parker until next weekend but he has a soccer game at 11 that I thought I would go to. Do you...do you want to go?" He looks at me dubiously.

As much as I am enjoying surprising him, I decide I don't want to go to a soccer game. I have my own Saturday pursuits and could use a little time alone. "I would rather not, if that's...appropriate, Booth."

"Yeah, yeah, that's fine, Bones." He rises and brings his dishes to the sink. "Do you...do you want to do something later?" I think I hear insecurity in his voice, but his back is to me, and non-verbal communication is really not my strong suit. I cross the room to join him, snake my arms around him, and rest my cheek against the back of the t-shirt that was in his emergency change-of-clothes duffle he started keeping in the back of the truck several years ago. His hands immediately move to cover mine, pressing them firmly into his stomach.

"Booth, I don't know, I don't know what this is supposed to be like, or how we are supposed to be together. I just know that I have wanted this for a long time. I am..." I pause, searching for words, "a little scared, to tell the truth. I am not certain how this works, with you, and I'm terrified of ruining it. But I can't not be with you anymore, not knowing you feel the same way, so I am trying..." I squeeze him from behind. Now he turns and hugs me to him, my cheek pressing against his chest. He smooths his palm down my back, rubbing and soothing. Me, certainly, but maybe himself too. The thought flits through my head that he smells so good, so like Booth, even though he used my shampoo and soap today. I feel Booth's lips press in my hair and I smile a little.

"We'll figure it out, Bones." Booth says, and we stay like that for a minute, but I'm a little restless, ready to start my day, and honestly, a little overwhelmed by the heavy emotional content of the last several days. He pulls back a little so his arms only loosely hold me. His eyes narrow and his jaw juts forward a little, thinking, "Let's go out tonight. Together. What do you think?"

"Well, I made tentative plans with Angela..."

"She can come too. She knows that we are...together, right? I'm assuming you told her or she used her ESP and knew already which means that Hodgins knows. Why don't you ask them both?" His eyes are bright and enthusiastic and he claps his hands together and rubs them. "We'll go to dinner and something. I'll figure it out. Okay? C'mon, say yes, Bones...please?" His eyebrows quirk up and he makes a silly face.

Bemused, I answer, "Okay..." One last quick kiss and he's walking backwards out of my kitchen. "Great, great. I'll...I'll call you later this afternoon and tell you when I'll pick you up..." he's in the other room now shrugging on a sweatshirt and grabbing his duffle. I stand in the doorway and he sketches a wave and with one last irrepressible grin, he's gone.

I clean up and complete the edits on an article I am publishing, as well as start on the first revision of my next Kathy and Andy novel. I had time for a run before meeting Max for coffee but that means I smiled my way through a _third_shower of the day. My Dad stands up when I met him at Charlie's Coffeehouse.

"Hey, Baby." He smiles and steps forward to kiss my cheek.

"Hi, Dad." I kiss him back and hand him a signed copy of Bred in the Bone for his friend Larry. I've never met Larry but Max has an arsenal of Larry stories that I suspect he gathers just to amuse me. This is one of the things that I have learned from Booth-that love is offered in many different forms.

"How is Larry?" I inquire, as a young man with multiple piercings and a shock of blue hair comes over to take our order. He gives Max a huge grin and taps the book, "I love her stuff. You a fan?"

Before I can stop him, Max flips it over and points to me. The boy's jaw drops in theatrical but sincere delight. "Wow. Temperance Brennan? Really?!" He holds out his hand. "Galactic Boswell."

I shake it, but it is my turn to smile and look disbelieving. "Galactic Boswell? Would you mind if I used that in a book? Never mind. I feel sure that my publisher will tell me that it is unbelievable."

_Galactic_ grins wider and looks sheepish. "First thing I did when I turned 18 was change my name so that when I was a world-famous skateboarder, I would have a great name. I was going to change both my first and last names to _Galactic Danger_but my Mom went nuts, so I kept my last name. If she hadn't named me Samuel Boswell, I'm not sure I would have changed it at all!"

I laugh at that. "That is almost funnier, although I doubt that most people in contemporary America have heard of the letters of Samuel Johnson and James Boswell."

He nods his head, "I know, and I'll probably change it back someday. Most people still call me Sam, although they don't know why. _Anyway_," he holds out his order pad, "can I get your autograph and what can I get you? We have great sticky buns."

I look at my father, "Dad?"

"Oh, whatever you want, Tempe. I'd like a cup of coffee, just a regular coffee, none of this foofy latté business." Sam nods approvingly.

"We have great coffee, locally roasted. One regular cup of joe, coming up. And for you Dr. Brennan?" I smile at the boy and hand him back his pad, "A coffee with cream, please, Sam, and a sticky bun. Actually, I'll take one to go, as well."

Sam looks down at his pad, reading what I wrote, and looks up in glee. "Thanks, Dr. Brennan!"

Dad looks at me quizzically, "What'd you write, Tempe?"

"Just a quotation from Johnson, Dad." He raises his eyebrows, waiting. I give in. " '_We are convinced that happiness is never to be found, and each believes it possessed by others to keep alive the hope of obtaining it for himself_.' Honestly, I'm impressed that he knows his Johnson." After Sam brings our coffee, we talk a little bit about Max's experiences volunteering at the YMCA's after school science program and he tells me a very amusing if cautionary story about Larry's friend Ben Smith (another unbelievable name) who broke his clavicle when he crashed the wheeled walker he was _riding_down a hill. Max insists on paying and while Sam takes his money to get change, he says, "How's Booth doing, Tempe?"

"What do you mean, Dad?" I question.

"Oh, you know, that girl, whatshername...Hallie, Laura...Hannah? who left him. Seemed like he was pretty low for a while there." I can't help the pang I feel at the thought of Hannah, and it must show on my face because I can see from his expression that Max regrets bringing her up, "Sorry, sorry, honey. It's just that I always thought...maybe when the time was right, you and Booth...you know..."

I decide to keep things to myself a little longer. "I'm fine, Dad. Booth's fine, too. We're..." I smile at him wryly. "fine...together. Which is good, for now." I rise, to end the conversation, and find that Max's bright eyes, so much like mine I'm told, twinkle shrewdly at me. I don't know what I gave away, but I have the uncomfortable realization that having people in my life that I am close to has made it difficult to keep my thoughts and emotions private. A second, more welcome realization, is that Booth has always been able to read me, from the beginning. And I can read him. The past two nights have been the best sort of evidence of _that_. I _miss_him, suddenly, and realize that I don't have to wait for him to call me, to see him on Monday at work, or to hope that I run into him by the coffee cart or on the running path.

"Dad, I need to go. I'll see you Friday night, at the opening of the Curie exhibit?" I lean down and kiss him on the cheek again, his hair soft against my cheek, the smell of Old Spice and coffee lingering.

"Sure, sure, honey. I'll see you then. I'll call you about the time. Maybe we could have dinner first? Are any of your other friends coming? Angel? The Bug man?" I laugh as I realize that my father still treats me like the a teenager I was when he left. My _friends_indeed.

"Yes, Dad, they'll be there..._Angela_and Jack Hodgins and Booth and probably some others as well. Perhaps I'll suggest we all meet for a meal at the Founding Father's first. How does that sound?"

"Great!" Max says enthusiastically. My phone rings from my bag. My father waves me off. "I'll call you later in the week, Tempe. Don't do anything I wouldn't enjoy!" With this ridiculous statement hanging in the air, I duck outside to take the call.

"Hi, Booth." I smile as I answer.

"Hi, B...Bones." I let the aborted endearment stand unchallenged. "How was coffee with Max?"

"Good, Booth. I got you a sticky bun. It was their specialty."

"You did?!" The happiness in his voice made me smile again. "Thanks, Bones, that was really thoughtful. So are we still on for tonight? I made reservations for dinner, called Angela, and I thought I'd pick you up a little after 6?"

I hesitate, unsure of how to ask for what I want.

"Bones? You there?" Booth's voice is careful and even. "Do you still want to do something tonight?"

"No, Booth, I'm still here," I reassure him, "yes, I still want to do something tonight but..." I check my watch. Almost four o'clock. "Where are you now, Booth?"

"Home. I took Parker and his friends for a quick lunch after the soccer game and then I came home to watch a basketball game. Why?"

"Well," I say finally, "I would like to see you _before_six. May I meet you there, get ready at your apartment?"

"Sure, Bones, that'd be great. C'mon over. We can hang out. Is there something you want to talk about?"

"No, I just realized that I'd rather "hang out" with you than wait for you. How should I...what should I wear tonight?"

Forty minutes later, having stopped at my apartment first to pick up clothes suitable for a "night on the town" as Booth called it, I consider knocking on his door, but just enter instead. His door is unlocked and as I enter, I can hear Booth's voice in the bedroom.

"Booth! I'm here!" I call out, and am rewarded by Booth coming through the bedroom door, cell phone pressed to his ear, mouthing: _reservations_. I nod and walk through to the bedroom to put my things down and hang up my dress. When I return to the living room, Booth is just dropping the phone onto the table He crosses the room and kisses me. Everything just feels right about being with him, kissing him, touching him. I let my right hand come up and stroke his face, and he deepens the kiss. His mouth fits to mine perfectly and his taste is heavy with the tang of Booth, masculine and sweet at the same time.

I realize after some time that his hand is lazily stroking the heavy curve of my breast and that I am resting a good portion of my weight against him. His easy strength is so intensely attractive. I end the kiss and raise my head to look at him. His beautiful brown eyes look soft and drugged and I revel in his response to me. I raise one of his hands to my mouth, kissing each finger, sucking each tip into my mouth briefly. Booth's eyes flare but he stays still, passive. I lean forward and kiss his jaw below his ear, inhaling him, and kiss his mouth again briefly. "Booth tell me again why you thought it was a good idea to go out tonight?"

He kisses me back and breathes out. "_Bones_."

"_Yes_?" I whisper against his lips.

"I'm glad you're here." His lips are so soft, and his tongue moves so deliciously against mine. His arms reach around me and snug me to him. "But we need..." he kisses me, "to get ready," another kiss, "to go out," and one last kiss, "the way I have wanted to do," now his forehead rests against mine, lips close but not touching, "for a _realllly_long time."

"Well, then," I say, slowly moving away from him, "far be it for me to thwart your plans. Let's get ready." I've already taken _three_showers today, so I just need to get dressed and put on my make up. Booth, however, decides to shower before he shaves. While the steam pours out over the top of his shower stall, I decide not to attempt makeup, but having filled the sink before he got into the shower, I shave my legs quickly and put on moisturizer. Booth tells me about Parker's game and gets extremely animated about the basketball game he watched this afternoon, one of a number of important events in a tournament called March Madness. I remember this from past years.

"Bones, the guy is a ball hog. Almost every minute of the game Fredette jacks up a step-back, 28-foot jumper or a double-clutch runner off the glass. I mean, he's a guard, almost everyone is taller than him, but he just keeps shooting. He takes 38% of his team's shots, a higher percentage than anyone else on any other team in the country."

The water stops running and Booth's hand sneaks out to grab his towel. His voice is muffled, but I can still understand him.

"That said, it was a GREAT game. I wouldn't be surprised if Jimmer Fredette gets drafted because of this game. Not only was he high scorer, hitting 3 of his 15, 3 point attempts, the game itself was really interesting. BYU and Florida set an NCAA tournament single-game record with 71 3-point attempts, breaking the previous record of 70."

"Booth, do you know that the odds of filling out a perfect March Madness bracket are 9 quintillion to 1?" There is a long pause and then the metallic jangle and rattle of the shower curtain being pushed back quickly makes me jump. Booth is standing, staring at me, towel around his waist, hair wet and slicked back in rows where his fingers ran through it.

"How do you know _that_, Bones? How much is a quintillion?" He sounds shocked, and I push off the sink where I was leaning and come to stand before him, feeling shorter than usual because of the extra inches he gains by standing in the bathtub.

"A quintillion is a 1 followed by 18 zeros, Booth." I can't help but reach out and measure his hips in the bright blue towel, smoothing and resting my hands there. "And why wouldn't I know that? You talk about this sporting event every year. I was...interested."

Booth steps out of the tub, forcing me to take a step back, but I stand my ground and keep my hands in place. I tilt my head up, meet his shining eyes and offer "Do you know that no number 16 seed has ever beaten a number 1 seed in the tournament although Princeton came close against Georgetown 51-50 in the 1980's?"

"Jesus, that's hot. Booth leans down and starts kissing my neck, pushing the open collar of my shirt wider so his lips can kiss his way down my shoulder. I shiver a little. "Tell me something else."

"For a while _oh, Booth, that feels good_every time the Yankees won the World Series..." Booth makes an angry dismissive sound when I say Yankees but his hands slip under my shirt to rest at my waist, stroking my sides and back. "...Kentucky would win March Madness."

Booth groans and pulls me to him, kissing me passionately. I don't care at all if we go out so I kiss him back. He groans again and sets me away from him. "_Bones_! You are not going to distract me." He gives me one more hard kiss to the mouth, pulling back and stroking my skin lightly. "I can't believe you are here." He whispers. "I'm so glad you are." He leans over and presses a tender closed-mouth kiss to my lips, hand still pressing on my cheek. For some reason, my eyes sting, and when he leans back, I leave them shut to hide the telltale signs of emotion. I'm going to go change in Parker's room. I don't think we'll make it to dinner if I have to watch you change. I'll meet you out in the living room." And then he's gone.

* * *

References: "He Shoots, He Shoots, He Shoots, He Scores: Jimmer Fredette, and the virtues of college basketball's biggest ball hogs." _Slate_ magazine online, Josh Levin, posted Thursday, March 24, 2011

"BYU, Florida combine or a 3-point try record", Associated Press, March 24, 2011


	11. Chapter 11

A/N "I need, therefore I imagine." - Carlos Fuentes  
Thank you all for reading. Michele

* * *

Angela yawns for the fourth time in as many minutes and Hodgins says that it is time for him to get his woman home which is interesting for at least two reasons. Firstly, he didn't even look at Angela when he said it; he and I were discussing D.C.'s best farmer's markets. Secondly, that he called her "woman", and Angela didn't object. He called me "Baby" once but apologized right away and even before that it was clear that he was using the word as part of his personal speech patterns and not to refer to me specifically. I suppose that Angela has become accustomed to him as a life partner and takes into account not only the semantics of their conversation but also the pragmatics.

"Bones, what are you thinking about?" Booth asked as Hodgins reached for his coffee cup, intent on draining the last measure.

I smile. "Nothing important, Booth."

"It doesn't have to be important, Bones. I was just wondering what made you look at Hodgins like that." He smiles back at me, eyebrows raised, and I concede.

"I was just thinking about pragmatics versus semantics, if you must know." I say simply, wondering what he'll make of this...if he'll tease me or question me. Angela's right, Booth does like to know things.

"I don't know what that means." He says, his smile broadening to a grin.

I laugh and tell him that semantics is when meaning is inferred from words, what is actually said, and pragmatics is inferred by context, and "I was thinking about how Hodgins sometimes uses the word _Baby_, for emphasis and also because it causes his utterance to take on an almost performative aspect, almost like it is a line in a dramatic presentation."

"Oh." He nods his head, understanding. "Okay. Complicated, but...interesting."

Hodgins doesn't let it go so easily though, "Dr. B, I would respectfully submit, however, that my _Babies _also come under the category of speech acts, if indirect, engaging the listener into becoming part of the meaning of the speech. So that my act of saying something becomes actually doing something...like naming a ship and smashing a bottle of champagne."

Angela, eyes sleepy but interested, perks up, "I dub thee, Sir Knight."

Now Booth is really interested. "I should have been knighted when we went to England! But let's see...how about: 'I bet you a dollar that Angela will fall asleep in the car on the way home.'?"

"Yes," I say, "Saying those things makes something happen, although I would point out that these are all performative speech acts, which was my original point-"

Angela cuts me off, either to quell my tendency to lecture indefinitely, or because she's genuinely thought of another performative speech act, "With this ring, I thee wed!"

With only the slightest pause, Booth smiles at her and says, "Good one, Ange. l agree with Hodgins though. You look beat." He pushes back from the table and rises, holding his hand out to her. She takes it and rises, smiling and leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. Hodgins comes up behind her with her coat held out. I stand but don't move. I am mesmerized by my friends, by Booth, by the easy camaraderie and connection we all seem to share tonight. The only place that I have been guaranteed to feel so is in the lab, with my colleagues, and, since Booth came into my life, often with him. I am struck by how beautiful Angela looks tonight, how happy she seems to be, and now she has come to me for an embrace, and I laugh and kiss her too, enveloped in a fragrant cloud of Angela, her hair soft against my cheek and her cool fingers holding my elbows. A handshake and kiss from Hodgins-Booth receiving the former and me the latter. I smirk to think if Hodgins remembered wrongly which to give to whom and what would happen if he kissed Booth and Booth shoots me an amused glance and a querying eyebrow. I shake my head and turn to wave to my friends as they depart the restaurant.

Standing in the restaurant, with most of the people behind me, including Booth, the doors gently seating themselves behind Hodgins and Angela, I feel truly nervous for the first time since Booth and I kissed. I...I don't know why, precisely. I don't even know why, imprecisely. I have no idea. Am I insecure? Am I worried about what happens next? Do I think that beginning a romantic relationship with Booth is a mistake?

Booth's large, warm hand comes to rest on my shoulder, arm pulling me in toward him. He leans forward and kisses my cheek but it doesn't feel like when Angela did it. His smooth face is disconcerting; some part of my brain keeps insisting that after a day's growth, I should feel rough whiskers. But I like it. I like it enough that I shift closer to maintain the contact, nuzzling my cheek up against his. I can feel the heat pouring off of him, smell the faint traces of his shaving gel and I can't help but place my own kiss below his ear. I feel his hand clench on my shoulder and the warmth of his body is withdrawn suddenly.

"Hey," Booth says. "Let's go."

I nod and let him help me on with my coat. Gathering my bag to leave, I see, as if for the first time, how packed the restaurant is and notice a group of women seated together nearby, several making no attempt to hide their interest in Booth. I examine myself for jealousy. No, I'm not jealous. I am with Booth. His attention hasn't wavered from me all night. He knows I don't like pie. His hand is on my back. I glance back at the women as Booth ushers me toward the door. Booth thanks our waitress as she passes by us and the maitre d' as we pass him. And then we are outside, on the sidewalk. It's chilly still at night this spring, and I button my coat while Booth continues to carry his.

Even with the slight chill, though, it is beautiful outside and by unspoken agreement, Booth and I start to walk toward the main thoroughfare. To get a cab home, I suppose, or maybe to go to a coffee shop? I continue to feel oddly disconnected, an observer rather than a participant. Pleased to be with Booth, but in an abstract sort of way, and also, I'm always glad to be with him. I wonder if maybe I am tired.

"You're awful quiet, Bones." Booth observes.

"I'm..." I'm not really tired, I realize, but that would have been an easy answer. I'm not sure what to say, not sure what I'm feeling. "I don't know why, Booth. I guess I'm just quiet."

He reaches out and takes my hand, links our fingers together. _Booth and I are holding hands. This is the first time Booth and I are holding hands. _I am hyper-aware of the sound of our shoes on the pavement, the feel of the night air on my face, the sound of the city around us. Booth's hand is warm and dry and calloused. I can feel its roughness as our hands shift against each other as we walk.

"Can I answer your question again?"

I'm so surprised, I almost stop, but Booth drags me along until we are in step again. "What question?"

"About the times I almost kissed you." The cool air now feels pleasant against my hot cheeks. I wonder if I am getting sick, but the inchoate longing to know what he will say, what we will do after he answers, overrules my anxiety.

"Okay." My voice is rough and tentative, strained with tension.

"Hey, Bones," Now, Booth stops. We're under a lamppost, not far from the corner of the main street. "You? Nervous? What gives?" He reaches out and hugs me to him. I put my arms around him and take the hug. I let him hug me before we were...together, and I know how good it feels. I still don't know what to say though and the silence lengthens. His palms rub outside of my coat, up and down my back, and I lean into him even more. I don't know how much time passes until I feel the rumble of his voice, and the warmth of his breath, as he speaks near my ear.

"Bones, I was thinking today." His mouth is a whisper against my skin. _Did he kiss me?_"I was thinking that if we had met before we worked together, if I hadn't been forced to get to know you through work..." he swallows and I can feel it against my jaw.

"You wouldn't have been interested in me." I state baldly.

"_**No.**_" His voice comes out loud and on a laugh that is so complicated, I can't decipher it. Disbelief and incredulity and despair. He pulls me to him hard for a second and then pushes me away from him just enough that he can see my face.

"No, no, no, Bones. Just the opposite and that's the truth. If we hadn't been working together, if there had not been any of the things between us that we had...trust and caring and protection, there would have been nothing to stop me-_oh god, Bones-_" and he kisses me, just once but he seems torn as he pulls away, lingering until he separates from me with a little groan. When I open my eyes he is watching me, dark eyes intense and incisive.

"Booth?" His eyes flick down to my mouth.

"Yeah, Bones?" He right hand has migrated to my face and is cupping my chin, his thumb caressing my cheek. I lean into him, eyes almost shutting again.

"What would you have done? Would you have asked me out? Even the way I was back then?"

Another strangled laugh from Booth. I wonder if I am hurting him with my questions. He puts both hands on my face now and pulls me to him, peppering my mouth and face with little kisses. He's forceful enough that I can now feel bits of sandpapery roughness as his face comes into contact with mine. He groans at last and presses his forehead into my shoulder, gripping me in another tight hug. "C'mon, you crazy woman. We're going to do what I would have done if I _had_ met you before I asked you to help me solve a case, if I had asked you out-_as I would have_-back then." He's dragging me by the hand up the street and within minutes, we are in a cab together. I am moving in to the far side of the cab but Booth is behind me in an instant, situating himself so that he can pull me up against him, my back to his side.

"Booth, I can't put my seatbelt on like this." I say. Booth is giving an address to the cabbie, one I don't recognize.

As he leans back into the seat, he pulls me even tighter to him. "He'll be careful. It's not far."

I subside, deciding not to disrupt the intimacy between us. Booth sweeps the hair off my neck and kisses my neck, continuing his story. "Bones, if we had met before we did, I would have been a goner. You were so beautiful when we first met. Wild and angry and brilliant. And I loved a challenge. I could _not_ have walked away from you, I know that." His breath is hot against my skin and I am listening. Listening with my ears and my skin and breathing in his words. Love has made me increasingly prone to metaphor. My eyes drift closed and my head drops back against his shoulder, baring my neck to him farther. His breath comes out on a little moan and his presses his open mouth against my throat. His words press and stroke me just surely, just as fiercely, as his mouth does. "We would have _fought_...about my 'alpha male tendencies', about your unconcern for other people's feelings, about what we did and where we went and the movie we watched and politics and religion and pie and it wouldn't have mattered because we would not have been able to keep our hands off of each other. I bet almost every time we had sex it would have been fucking make-up sex." A flush sweeps over me when he curses, his voice low and intense, and I can feel a sweet ache in my breasts and between my legs. Booth's hand has settled at my waist and is caressing my side and belly through the stretchy black fabric of my top. I tilt my head back further and catch his mouth.

A throat clears in the front of the cab. A collection of syllables that means we are here. Booth holds me in place and leans forward to thrust money at the driver, then exits the car, holding out a hand to assist me in my high heels and short skirt.

We are standing outside a door with a small flashing neon sign, two men standing in the attitude of bouncers, and a line like a string of brightly colored beads extending out from the stoop. Again, Booth takes my hand and leads me forward. He approaches the step and climbs past the line to say something to the bouncer. The man nods respectfully and Booth turns to pull me up next to him, untying and unbuttoning my coat to hand it to the bouncer with his own. And then we are through the dark door into the club.

We're in a short dark hallway and then we are not, the hall giving way to an enormous converted warehouse space-bar, tables, and fully half of the cavernous room given over to a dance floor. Glittering triangular baffles hang from the ceiling from single wires placed at their centroids, _balancing points_, to manage the sound. I can feel the pounding music from the dance floor, but it is surprisingly easy to hear Booth as he speaks.

"So, Temperance, what would you like to drink?" I look up in surprise and can't look beyond Booth's challenging, glittering eyes, the low light making them glint like a threat. I feel my own passion, my own strength, and maybe a little bit of that _wildness _rise up in me.

"I'd like a shot of tequila, _Seeley_." I say and feel his hand slip beneath my top to rest on my bare lower back, guiding me through the crowd but also stroking the soft skin there. I feel like an instrument being tuned to Booth-each smile, each kiss, each word plucking a chord and turning a peg. Booth seems unaffected and his voice is deep and certain as he smiles wickedly down at me. "Call me Booth."

Turned on and my interest piqued, caught by the game, I wait until we are at the bar and lean into him, letting my breasts press and lift against him, making my relatively modest v-neck top strain to contain them. My head tips back to meet his eyes but between my heels and the spine straightening nature of the challenge, I am almost his height, and our lips are just inches apart. I know he can feel my breath on his lips, and Booth's eyes are dark and predatory as he glances down and then back to my face. "I'm going to go to the restroom. I'll be back in a minute, Booth." I turn and walk away, posture still in place but allowing my stride to lengthen to show off my legs and ass. When I look back over my shoulder, I can see him above the people filling the space between us, eyes unwaveringly on _me_.

When I return, Booth is standing next to a tall round table, six shot glasses of amber liquid in a group. He's leaning against the wall, one foot pressed to the wall behind him, his face dappled in shifting lights. The long lines of his body reminiscent of pictures of cowboys. All the pose needs is a cowboy hat tipped down over his eyes and cigarette dangling from his lip. Instead his head is uncovered, carefully arranged dark brown hair that I know now is soft to the touch, and his face turned up to take in the activity around him. His cop's eyes are restless and observant and I realize suddenly that my eyes probably do this too, except mine are scientist's eyes-counting, cataloguing, measuring, predicting. He looks at the crowd like he expects to have to rescue someone, as if he wouldn't mind "cracking a few heads together". I pause a minute more, just outside of his zone of awareness, to please myself watching him.

He dressed tonight in simple dark jeans and a dark button down shirt. I can't see it, but I know the chain of his medal is just out of sight. As I watch, a group of young, alluringly attired women approach him, obviously determined to engage him, encouraged by the sight of six available measures of tequila on the table and bolstered by their sisterhood and attraction to Booth. I wonder if they think that the shots are a ploy on his part, to attract women, or if the fact that there are six of them means that he has more male friends on their way. As they try to converse with him, he looks slightly irritated and looks over their heads, presumably...yes, looking for me, because when our eyes meet, his light up and a little grin of self-deprecating relief and happiness wash across his features. I smile back, and our connection and our new willingness to admit our connection, makes me aware that the last of my anxiety, for now anyway, is gone.

I cross the distance between us and cut to the left of the girls, taking a tequila shot in each hand and downing them, one after the other, returning the empty glasses to the table with clicks that can't be heard over the ambient noise, and slip between girls and table to snake my arms around Booth, tilting my mouth up for his kiss. He doesn't hesitate but opens his mouth on mine so that he can taste the tequila I drank and I can taste his need and desire for me. His hand once again slips under my shirt to rest on my naked back, and my hand clasps his belt buckle, just a simple silver one tonight, and my fingers curl around and over, pulling his lower body against mine.

"Jealous?" He murmurs against my lips.

"Of what?" I answer back, kissing him softly again. Once I started kissing him, I forgot all about them. I do peek over my shoulder. The women are gone.

Booth laughs. "I should have known better. Want another drink, T-"

"_Bones_." I insist. "Call my by my name, Booth." I can't resist and lean forward to place an open mouthed kiss in the hollow of his throat, _the suprasternal notch, just superior to the manubrium, _and his head dips back involuntarily. Just as quickly though, he moves a little away from me, to pick up his two shots and drink, following my lead.

"Here, Bones, there's one more for you." He holds the shot glass to my lips from behind and I drink. His hand reaches across me to replace the empty with a full glass and he downs the last one himself. Leaning back against the wall, he pulls me to him again, to stand between his legs. "Four times, Bones. Four times I wanted to kiss you when I was with Hannah. Probably more, but I was able to pretend that it was gratitude or partnerly affection or some sort of bullshit like that." I'm listening avidly, truly surprised that he would admit to wanting to kiss me when he was involved with another woman. I wish I could watch his face better, but however good the acoustics are in here, it's just too loud. On the other hand, feeling my body pressed against his as he speaks in near my ear, is incredibly erotic. I revel in the heat of his erection, the press of my softer belly against his firm one, my breasts against his chest, my hands pressed high against his sides so that if I moved my thumbs they would graze his nipples. In addition, the whisper of his breath against my neck. I feel hot, so hot, like I'm melting, or electrified.

"_When_?" I demand hoarsely.

Booth, kisses me beneath my ear, soft and lingering, and says, "when you gave me the phone. I was happy. Happy with the present, with her, with _you_, because I knew you picked it out, because you are the one, you are _always_the one I want to share my happiness with. You were leaving and I came to the hall to say goodbye and you were so far away, just at the end of the hall, and my mouth watered, that's how much I wanted to kiss you." Booth nuzzles me a little and then takes my hand. "C'mon. Let's dance." And, half drunk with alcohol and half drunk on Booth, I let him draw me into the music.

I don't think I would have expected Booth to be such a good dancer, or to be willing to dance. In my experience, macho guys tend to stay on the edges of dance floors. But Booth loves music and his natural grace and athleticism make him as dangerously sexy on the dance floor as he is off it. He pulled me close every chance he got, and some he didn't, slow dancing me during even relatively fast songs. But the slow songs...oh, the slow songs. I have been turned on without any relief or respite for so long this evening that I feel as though I might climax if he kisses me, touches me just right. When I can, I press against Booth to try to relieve some of the pressure. That Booth's hand is under my shirt, his entire palm stroking my back, is not helping.

"When I first saw you again, when we met at the coffee cart on the mall." I don't even pull away as I listen. My head is pressed into his shoulder and our bodies are moving together, shared energy and rhythm. "It was a purely physical reaction. Here I was, happy to see you, looking forward to telling you about how I had "moved on" and all I wanted to do was grab you and kiss the fuck out of you, kiss the stupid stupid stubborn idea you had that you weren't good for me out of you."

I'm not sure I want to hear any more, it is so easy to feel badly for the time we missed. But is also addictive to imagine his mouth on mine, unexpectedly, in a moment that had already passed without it.

"Booth?"

"Yeah, _Baby_?" Another slow gyration of his hips. It's late, well past one in the morning, and the music is almost all suitable for full body contact. It has been a long time since our sweaty bodies weren't plastered against one another, since our mouths were more than two breaths apart.

"Let's go-" I stop myself before I say _home_.

"_Yeah_." And again, we are holding hands. As we cross the still crowded room, I signal that I'm going to get water from the bar. He points toward the entrance where he will wait for me. I get my bottle of water and as I walk to rejoin him, I see that Booth is now speaking with an expensively, if casually, dressed man. As I get nearer, Booth's eyes snap to mine and the man with him looks at me to, an expression that I have now come to associate with surprise _wide eyes, open mouth, raised eyebrows_ crosses his face.

"_Temperance Brennan_." Booth raises his voice to be heard over the music, introducing me. He doesn't say "My partner" and he doesn't use my title.

"Nice to meet you, Temperance." The man says and holds out his hand to be shaken. Again, the surprise but this time recognizable surprise. Some men are not used to women who can shake hands. _My _daughter _will_ know how to shake hands. My _daughter_? But the man is speaking.

"Justin Kosbur." He pronounces it _Kazboor_ with the accent on the second syllable. Ukrainian, I think. "I own the club!" He grins, charismatic and powerful in his own house. "Booth used to come here a lot but I haven't seen him in a long time. Too long!" He clasps Booth on the shoulder, but is still smiling at me, and again I recognize this expression, thinly veiled interest…in me as a beautiful woman? In me as a woman with Booth?

Booth reaches out for me where I have paused, clearly irritated that I'm so far away. He reels me in possessively, curving his arm around me. A distant voice in my head wonders if this is alpha male behavior that I should be protesting, but this isn't my world, my culture. Booth brought me here and I feel protected and valued for myself, the way Booth always treats me. It doesn't hurt that the alcohol and foreplay have lowered my inhibitions. I let myself lean into Booth further and ignore the conversation that doesn't seem to have anything to do with me. I allow my hand to pull the tails of his shirt out of his pants so I can snake my hand under to touch his bare skin. Booth squeezes me—_behave_—and makes his promises to come back soon to his friend.

Again, a word to the bouncer and this time, our coats reappear, like a magic trick. _Do bouncers hang up coats?_Again, we are pressed up against each other in a cab. Booth seems to be at the ragged end of his control too. His hands clench convulsively on my shirt as he pulls me to him to kiss. But he doesn't need to pull because I'm already there, pushing against his tongue with mine. I love, love, love, how he tastes. He is hot and sweet and wet. As am I, and the thought of coming, hard, against his mouth on me, makes me shudder. I reach out and press against his cock through his pants.

"Oh _god_." Booth moans low and long and his body loosens and his head drops back. I move so that I am sitting on his lap and my mouth licks and kisses aggressively against his neck, palm still pressing on the heat between his legs, fingers reaching between them to press and play with his balls. "Jesus!" Booth picks me up and places me on one side of the cab, reaches across me and snaps my seatbelt in place. "Stay." he orders. "Just..._stay there_, Bones..." he seems unable to resist leaning in for another long kiss, "_Bones..._ just wait…_wait_…_wait_…until we are home." But he is still kissing me; against my lips he says, "Bones, I do _not_ want to come in my pants in a cab. It's just..._no._"

Thankfully, within a minute, the taxi comes to a stop in front of Booth's apartment.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones

A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! I'm not entirely sure where this all comes from. I hope you like it! Michele

* * *

The cool air of the evening has long since given way to the frosty sparkle of early morning and it hits my hot cheeks like a slap as I climb out of the cab. Booth is in front of me in an instant, pulling me into him by the lapels of my jacket and kissing me. The heat radiating from his body, the hard press of his erection grinding into me, the febrile touch of his lips...My body feels too much and I can feel myself trembling with arousal. I am close to succumbing to the sharp spikes of desire and am on the edge of orgasm. Booth pushes me back against the wall of the liquor store, the brick trying and failing to catch on the smooth fabric of my coat. His big body between me and the deserted street, his hand _oh his hand is also warm, scorching, how can he be so warm_ reaches under my skirt and slips past the edge of my panties. Two long fingers slide into me, and his thumb turns _once, twice, again_ and I am undone, arching violently back and then into him, hands clenched on his shoulders and mouth grasping at his. He moans and kisses me, hard, letting me know without words that we are far, far from finished. He rips his mouth from mine and pulls me into him with his left hand, palm flat and radiating heat on my lower back, his right hand still right where he put it. His mouth now moves with desperate restraint against my neck, trying to give me time to recover, but I am all his now, no more waiting, no more Booth giving me time. I push at his wrist, his fingers leaving my body in a swift slick rush and push, hard, so that now _his _back is against the wall, and I open my mouth on his gasping one, my body still pulsing in the last throes of my climax.

"_Booth_. _Upstairs. Now._" From the way he drags me into his building, crowds me into the corner of the elevator with his big body, I suspect that is the last order I will give, spoken or unspoken, for quite some time. He turns me so that I face the back of the elevator, and he rips my jacket down my arms and tosses it to the floor. As if he cannot help himself, he slides his hands-palms, fingers, thumbs pressed firmly against my skin-under my shirt to caress my naked waist and lower back. And then his hands are rising _rising_, rubbing and stroking my back and now boldly slipping around me to cup my breasts. I am sandwiched between his hands squeezing my breasts and nipples in the front and the heated bulk of his body _the bulge in his pants, his cock _pressing against me from behind. I am still hypersensitive from coming a minute ago but the reality of this man, of _Booth_, of how attracted I am to him, how well our bodies seem to know and seek each other, twists almost pain into burgeoning arousal again. I can hear myself call his name and press back into him, panting and keening as I grip his hands to keep him to me. He moans and speaks against my neck where his lips are kissing and biting, a cascade of almost senseless language. "_Bones, baby, oh my god, I have waited so long. Bones. Don't stop me please don't stop me. You don't know, you can't know, I need...I need...I need you." _Twin shudders wrack my body, one from his words and one from the elevator halting.

Booth doesn't seem to notice, pulling my hands from his wrists and placing them on the wall of the elevator, pressing his erection into my ass, rotating and thrusting and now plucking at my nipples through the satin of my bra. I am beyond caring about where we come together just that we do, just that we need to, _now_. Even as I stand there, body on fire with desire for him, it is as if I can feel him on top of me, weighing me down, thrusting into me over and over again. I can feel his heaviness and smell his sweat and desire for me, but no, that's not happening yet, I'm still in the elevator and I can feel Booth getting ready to take me from behind. His hand snakes between us to touch his belt buckle. Without a thought of stopping him, I arch back to catch his mouth with mine and again he groans into me. _"Jesus, Bones, I just have to, just let me...Unghhhh, Babe, no no no not in the elevator, Christ, Seeley..._" And suddenly, I am released from the pressure of his body on mine. His hand touches mine, takes mine, and I look down at it blindly, clutching it automatically. As he moves away from me, to tug me toward the apartment, he pauses. Turns, and the look on his face is confused and pained and bewildered and...frustrated. I don't understand but I know he needs something _something _and so I move close again and his face clears as he draws me in and continues to kiss me and I realize...

"_Booth_."

"_Hmrpth. Mmm?"_

"Here. Pick me up, okay, just carry me in." And before I can say "orthogonal", Booth lifts me, hands cupping my ass, and moves across the interstitial hallway space to press my back against his door. Still kissing me, he pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. He is just in time to catch me up against him again as the door swings open and we are through. He leans back against the door to close it, and his eyes shut in pleasure as he lets me slide down his body to rest all my weight against him. I reach out with my left hand and snap the top deadbolt. Eyes flying open at the sound, Booth lifts and carries me once again, moving unerringly through the dark apartment to his bed. I am suddenly stretched out below him, as I fell when he released me, watching him in the light filtering in from the city outside, my scotopic vision allowing me to see clearly at what I estimate to be a luminance level of 10−2 cd/m².

The first thing he does is take off his own shirt, unbuttoning one button and then pulling it right over his head to toss to the side. Now we are both fully clothed except Booth's naked chest, a little sweaty already, and I suppose he has kicked his shoes off as I have. I resist the urge to touch him but just watch him, every nerve ending in my body tuned to him, ready. He leans down and covers my body and I snake my hands around him to stroke him, to rake my fingers down his back in sensual trails while he kisses me-my mouth, my face and ears and eyes, down my neck until he reaches my shirt and, unsatisfied and frustrated by my confounding top-a garment that from his muttering he seems to feel holds personal animosity toward him-he plucks at the fabric. I reach around myself and pull it off over my head, and by the time it is sailing over the side of the bed, Booth has unfastened my bra and pulled it off.

"Unnnnnnnnnnh." I moan as he pulls first one nipple, then the other, into his mouth, licking and sucking, nipping a little, but most of Booth's finesse has deserted him. His hands are shaking and unbuckling his belt and tugging at my skirt. I help by unzipping and wiggling out of my clothes while he pushes his jeans down his legs. They get stuck about half way down his calves and he falls forward on top of me. He feels so good, I can't help but grasp him and pull him to me, shifting underneath him to find the perfect spot. Finally, his pants are off and our legs are aligned and his cock nudges me right where it feels best. The friction between my breasts and his firm upper body is delicious.

"Oh, Booth," I breathe, "you feel so good to me. You smell good. You are so soft and hard and-" I reach down and slide my closed fist down his erect penis. I never get to finish my sentence. In a wordless cry of pain and pleasure he rips my hand from his cock and shifts to press at my opening again.

"Your mouth, Bones. Fuck. Now, baby. Now. Kiss me now." Without waiting for an answer, his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding and somehow supplicating. It is this last that quiets my competitive instincts and I open my mouth to him as he spears into me, curls convulsively around me and pounds into me. He is clutching me to him _mine mine mine _even as he moans a high helpless cry of release. His release strikes his body and through him me, pulsing through him and out, binding us together as surely as our feelings for each other. This unholy attraction, this need for each other, has him in its grip. And yet his hand moves sweetly between us to slip and stroke, his cock still thrusting and shooting inside of me when I tip over the edge yet again, silently convulsing around him, with him.

And now, like that first night when I cried, I can feel something break in him. He clutches me to him, still joined, and tips to his side, so that our bodies are pressed against each other as close as possible. Cheek to cheek, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, legs intertwined. I can feel wetness on my face. Tears? Sweat? Mine? His? I think to pull back to see his face but his hand is at the back of my neck stroking my hair, holding me against him as if to console me, as if to subsume me. He is shaking, trembling a little, and I…I don't know what to do, but… But I am with Booth, after what feels like a lifetime apart. I stroke his hair like he strokes mine. I kiss the only part of his face I can reach, his cheek, his ear. I whisper in his ear. "Booth."

After what feels like many minutes, his body relaxes and his grip on me slackens. I let inertia have its way, take its time, and finally, I am on my back, head turned toward Booth, watching him sleep. Groping blindly with my far hand, I touch the edge of a chenille throw and pull it up over me. Booth doesn't seem cold. Many many minutes more and even the reassuring sound of his breathing, his almost snores, the silvery shimmer of his eyelids, are not enough to keep me awake. My own eyes are heavy and I think I should go retrieve my jacket now, before morning. I think about just letting it go, buying a new one, but it seems wasteful and I know myself well enough to know that I won't sleep well if I don't go get it. I sigh and steel myself to move.

Booth's hand shoots out to stop me as I shift toward the edge of the bed.

"Whrey'goin?" He mumbles sleepily, eyes still closed.

"Shhh. To get my jacket out the elevator, Booth. It's okay, I'll be right back."

"Noooo. I'll get it. You stay here." His eyes are mere slits, but open nonetheless.

"Booth. You sleep. I'll be right back."

"But you're _naked_."

I smile in tired exasperation. "I'll put something on."

"No." He heaves himself out of bed and again I find myself thinking about the muscle power necessary to move his big body so fluidly, so quickly.

Too tired to fight, I give in. I slide under the covers, shivering a little at the touch of cool cotton but they warm soon enough. I'm on my stomach, face pressed into his pillow, breathing his scent. If I tilt my head down just…a….bit…I can still breathe through my mouth and smell his pillow with my nose.

I don't hear him return and the first I know of it is his low voice near my ear.

"What are you doing, Bones?" He nuzzles through the tangled mess of hair at my nape to kiss my neck. I feel the bed shift a little beneath me as he sits down. I move to turn over but he whispers in my ear. "Stay there, Bones. Here…" He smoothes my hair to one side and kisses me along my neck and jaw until I turn my head to the side. His hands push the covers down to my waist and I can feel the calluses on his palms as he settles them at my waist, turning small circles with his thumbs. He slides backwards so that the heat of his thigh presses against my thigh instead of my buttocks. I don't know what he has in mind until I feel him kiss the curve of my ass where it joins my thigh. I jump a little.

"Shhhhh." He whispers and I feel the hot air against my skin. He's so close to an incredibly intimate kiss that I hold my breath, not sure I am ready for more again so soon, but he just keeps kissing along my cheeks, up and over the rounded curves, hands now stroking and pressing where his mouth has been. I sigh, feeling almost high from the pleasure of his touch.

When he reaches my lower back, I feel him kiss the skin around my tattoo. For the first time, he stops kissing to touch. I curve upward into the touch of the rough pad of his thumb as he circles _circles_ the inked skin. Then, only then, does he kiss it, his mouth open.

"What's the story, Bones?" He asks quietly, diffidently.

Unlike some, this isn't a difficult story and I tell it readily. "I was young, on a dig…in fact it was the same night…" My eyes still shut, I can't help but smile at a different memory, "…that I imbibed Bhang. We were spending a few days in the city after weeks in the field and I don't remember much after drinking the Bhang before kneeling across a table to get the tattoo. I had just enough presence of mind to ask her to leave off the crossbones, but that's how," a yawn overtakes me and interrupts my recitation, "I ended up with a skull on my ass."

Booth huffs out a little laugh even as his hands keep stroking the skin of my lower back-at my crude terminology or I don't know what and I snuggle down a little deeper into the covers. "You can keep doing what you were doing Booth, or," and I muster just enough energy to turn my head and open my eyes briefly, "you can come to bed. Come to bed, Booth."

Booth pulls the blanket back up to cover all the way to my shoulders and, rather than walk around to the other side of the bed, I feel his knee reach over and press into the mattress as he climbs over me and slips into the warmth with me. Despite the fact that he has been out, he is warm. I hope he put pants on to retrieve my jacket but decide not to worry about it. I scoot back against him and he curls forward around me, kissing my neck one last time, and I tip my head back for a goodnight kiss. These are the first times we are doing these things and yet they feel _right_. His hand snaking around my body to pull me to him. My legs twining with his. The scrape of his beard against the only spot on my body I can't easily reach, on my upper back between my shoulder blades. My hand reaching behind me to stroke down his back and buttocks as far as I can reach.

B&B

* * *

In the early light of dawn I awake because something that had been nagging at me has surfaced to my conscious mind while I slept. And yet, I feel so good, sleeping next to Booth, in his bed, that I just don't want to get out. There is a nightstand on my side of the bed and I reach forward to root around in the top drawer. To my delight, there is paper and a pencil. Resting on my side, head still on the pillow, I am still able to scratch effectively at the pad of paper.

I don't know what wakes Booth, but suddenly he is awake and has his arms locked around me.

"_Bo-ohnes." _He half-whines. "What are you doing?" I feel him rise up on one elbow behind me. "Are you…are you…_adding_?" His voice is incredulous. "Why are you doing math…in _my_ bed…_this early_ in the morning…in _my bed_!...No. I draw the line here. Just no." He leans over and takes the pencil and paper from my hands and throws it vigorously into the room, and then starts kissing my neck at such a rapid pace and in such sensitive places that I can't help but laugh.

"Booth! No! No no no _noooooo_." I laugh helplessly as his hands tickle under my arms too. "Booth!" He dives under the covers and presses into my lower back with his nose. "Arrrghhmmmmph!" I in turn dive away from him and throw myself off the bed onto the floor, crawling naked toward my calculations.

Victorious, I hold my prizes in my hand and look back at him, flat on his back in the bed, arms behind his head, smiling in disbelief. He flips back the edge of the covers. "Come back?" He says, but I don't believe he is actually contrite.

"I don't know." I say haughtily. "You were very rude to tickle me."

"Bones, you were doing _math_! In _my_ bed!" He responds.

"Booth, I don't know what the fact that it is your bed has to do with anything. It is just as easy to do math here as anywhere. I would have gotten a calculator, but I was really enjoying being in bed with you. I didn't want to leave to get one from my purse so I decided to do the calculations by hand."

His expression changes and _now_ he seems a little contrite, although I am not certain why.

"C'mon, Bones. Come back to bed, Babe." He tries his charm smile. He had me at "Babe", did he but know it. I decide to extract a little in return for my rude eviction from-dare I think it_-our_ bed.

"Only if you tell me another time you almost kissed me. I believe you owe me two."

"Only if you tell me what you were doing doing _math_ in bed at," he looks at the clock, "7:13 in the morning when we didn't get to sleep until at least 3."

"Only if you tell me BOTH of the times you almost kissed me when you were with Hannah."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"I'm going to the bathroom first, though."

"Me too."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Booth gets out of bed so quickly I almost take a step back. He walks right up to me and kisses me hard, on the lips.

"Good morning." He says. "I love you. And I'll be right back."

And he is. My turn in the bathroom completed, I climb back into bed. I have to admit, I used his toothbrush to do a quick brush of my teeth. It seemed to me that "I love you" might be a prelude to more kissing eventually. I think I can smell the telltale scent of peppermint on his breath as well.

"Well?" He says, nodding toward my work.

"Booth, it's not a big deal. Just something that has been bugging me." He is waiting patiently and does not seem bored, so I continue. "Ever since the lecture, the number 431, the year the Peloponnesian war started, has been going around and around in my head. 404, the year it ended is a palindrome and even and not prime, but 431 had some significance like that, some _mathematical _significance that I just could _not_ remember. This morning I woke up thinking that maybe it was a Sophie Germain prime, meaning a sum of consecutive prime numbers. It's not a very large number so I was just looking for the right addends." I smile. "In case you were wondering, 47 + 53 + 59 + 61 + 67 + 71 + 73 = 431!"

Booth's expression is completely indecipherable to me and I wonder if I will ever know him as well as he knows me. But I know I want to try. "Now." I say leaning forward to kiss him. "I would like hear _your_ stories."

"Bones," Booth says seriously, "I really cannot believe that you don't know by now that I would do anything for you. Tell you anything. Any story. _Any_ story. I'm just having a hard time believing that you are really here, with me, knowing stuff," he gestures with his hand toward the papers on the nightstand, "_and_ kissing me." His hands cup my face and he kisses me tenderly, passionate but restrained.

I kiss him back of course; I have wanted to kiss him freely for so long that I am not going to waste an opportunity now. I am not sure how to respond to his declaration, so I just move to straddle his lap while we kiss, and when the kiss comes to an end, I rest my whole body against him and as I hoped, his arms cradle me to him. He slides us down into the bed under the blankets once again, and we sleep, putting off further talk until later.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I hope you like this 3 part chapter. Just for clarity's sake, and because I can't always get ff to format the stories the way I want, the middle section is a series of emails between our favorite couple.

Michele

* * *

When I wake again, I am alone in bed and can hear water running. The shower? No...a sink. The running water sound stops but then starts again almost immediately-this time a shower. And...singing? A helpless smile of amusement climbs across my face. I bite my lip to hold it in. Booth is...singing. Hah! I try to make out the song but I don't recognize it. I'm not actually sure anyone would recognize it; Booth is a terrible singer.

I slip out of bed. It's only 9:30, late for me but still early given how late we went to sleep. As I think about it, my stomach growls, and I decide to do something about breakfast. I need food and I need to work today. Whenever we work on a case, even after all these years, it wreaks havoc on my schedule. I have several deadlines approaching this week and really need to spend some time working today. I put on the clean underwear, jeans, and a t shirt that I had brought with me yesterday afternoon, and I scratch a note to Booth on the back of last nights' lists of prime numbers. Rather than put on my dressy jacket from last evening, I pull on one of Booth's fleeces, hanging by the door. This one has an emblem of a sports team on the breast and is huge on me, sleeves hanging down past my hands. But it feels intimate and smells like Booth, so I roll up the arms, grab my keys and wallet and run out to get breakfast.

When I get back with my coffee and breakfast sandwiches-Bacon, egg, and cheddar for Booth; vegan sausage, egg whites, spinach for me; a chocolate croissant for us to share-Booth is clearing the counters of papers and other detritus of his work week so we have a place to eat.

"Morning, Bones." He says lightly, wiping the counter with a sponge, and smiling at me from under his brows.

"Good morning, Booth." I answer, placing the aromatic brown bag on the still damp table while he takes the hot coffees from me. I'm not sure if we should kiss or not and when I peek at him, he isn't looking my way, so I just settle myself on one of his tall stools and start unpacking. He brings plates and forks and napkins and I arrange everything carefully, knowing that I am fussing because I'm nervous. Now, I'm nervous? I cut my breakfast sandwich again, so that now it is in fourths, and catch Booth's smile.

"What?" I say, relieved for some reason.

"You always like your food in small pieces." He answers, still smiling.

"Is that bad?" I say, taking a big bite into the triangle and looking up at him directly.

"No, of course not." He doesn't say any more. Nor do I. I am...caught, by the warmth in his eyes. I swallow but don't feel as hungry any more. We both stare for a moment, and his brown eyes are so familiar that I find myself strangely comforted. Emboldened, I reach my hand across the table before I can think better of it, and I'm glad I do because he takes it in his own right away, eagerly, gripping my fingers in his and running his thumb across my knuckles rhythmically.

"Bones..." He says.

"Yes, Booth?"

"I think...I mean, don't you think we should...talk about this...us," he indicates "us" with raised eyebrows and a flick of his eyes. "I actually always thought that the talking would be the easy part. I mean, not that it would be easy, but that you would want to talk about everything and I would need to talk about it with you, but instead, we aren't really...talking about anything except what we want to talk about." He makes a face. "That came out wrong."

"No, no, I know what you mean, I think," I say.

"You do?...I mean, it's just that I am more used to not touching you than I am touching you. I have spent years stopping myself from kissing you," he looks a little sheepish, " grabbing you. I had to make myself leave at the end of a night doing paperwork at your apartment, stop myself from asking you to stay after one at mine. And then Hannah," a little pause, but he continues, "and then these last months. It was easier, to just keep doing what I had been doing, or not doing for all this time, than to change things." He looks down and then back up at me, I can see that whatever he is going to say next is important to him. "You know what I mean? You said…"

Now it is my turn to look down, but if ever there was a time for honesty with Booth, it is this, not just this second, this conversation, but these first days of…whatever this is. I can't quite keep my eyes on him the whole time, but I start, and I keep talking, trying to give him what he deserves, what will establish lines of communication between us on this topic. "I think that in the beginning," I look up at him to see if he knows when I mean. I'm not sure, but he is listening, calm but obviously very invested.

"In the very beginning, I pushed you away so firmly that for me, that became my habit. To put walls between us. Mostly walls made of words but also to keep, physically, a lot of space between us. As we became friends," I swallowed and changed to a more active verb, "as I allowed myself to accept your friendship, that distance got smaller. There were conversations that weren't battles, weren't competitions. And when I needed you, only when I really needed you, there were hugs, touching. You had an advantage I didn't have. You knew what you wanted, I think, even before you knew you wanted it," and I hesitate again, "as seriously as you did, you admitted to yourself what you wanted. At least enough that you were always touching me…my back, my arm, my shoulders, whenever you could."

"I felt the same pull. Those nights, I wanted to stay, I wanted you to stay, but I couldn't touch you, couldn't let myself reach out you." I could hear the hoarseness in my voice, something that happens only when I am really tense. "I pretended also. But for far, far longer than you. You are…braver, than I am, in this way." I take a long sip of my coffee, desperate to relieve the pressure in my throat. "I have always admired that in you, Booth."

"Bones. It's all right." His hand grips mine firmly. His eyes are fixed on me, encouraging. "It's all right. For me, the hardest time has been these last months, knowing that I could be with you or that we could try anyway, and not being sure, not being ready-"

"This has been the easiest time for me, Booth," I break in, relieved to be able to offer something that reveals my strength, to not feel so out of my depth, "I realized that there was a lot of evidence," I smile now, "there was a lot of evidence that you…had feelings for me," I steer away from the word love still, "for a long time. You would text me little notes, or remember that I was doing something hard that day, or would bring me my favorite coffee, or carry my equipment. I allowed myself to think that this was just your way, just Booth, that it didn't have anything to do with me—"

Booth pushed back from his seat suddenly and is kissing me the next instant, pulling me up from my own seat. His hands are gentle where they press against my lower back as he embraces me. His lips are soft and gentle and I reach my own arms around him. The kiss ends and I nuzzle my face into his chest and he rubs my back over his own sweater.

"It had _everything_ to do with you, Bones. Everything." He says in a low voice.

I hug him tighter. He hugs me back.

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"May we eat now?"

He smiles and lets me go. "Sure. Let's eat."

B&B

On hearing that I was going to be working, Booth decides to go to church. We leave his apartment in a rush, Booth hurrying to get into his suit coat and tie, buttoning up his good gray wool coat over, and me gathering up my things.

"So. I'll see you later?" Booth asks.

"I don't know how late I'll be." I answer.

"Well, Bones, you gotta eat. Can I meet you for dinner?" He opens the door for me and walks out close behind me, his hand at my back.

Glancing at him over my shoulder, I say "Booth, on Sundays, I usually just have something from the cafeteria for dinner, and work late. I suspect I will be very tired tonight, given our late night last night." His eyes light up and I can't help but laugh.

We're in the elevator now, alone, and I move in close to him, reaching one gloved hand up and pulling his mouth down to mine. His hands come up to grip my elbows as he kisses me. His skin is cool and shaved smooth this morning, his lips warm and lightly chapped. I keep mine soft and open my mouth to allow him in; he tilts his head slightly and licks into my mouth. He tastes like Booth, like he did that first night, that afternoon of Christmas blackmail, that one other time that we never speak of and barely allow ourselves to remember. He tastes masculine and tangy, sweet and hot, and I return the kiss, feeling giddy with the pleasure of being with him, of being permitted to kiss him like this.

Against his lips, him still peppering my mouth with soft kisses, I say, "Why don't you meet me at my apartment at 9:00?"

"9:00! That's late, Bones. You won't eat..."

"No, I will, Booth, but I have a lot to do..."

"How about 8:00?"

"I will try to be done by 8 but I am not promising anything. I'll call you at 7:30 and let you know." I kiss him one last time just before we leave the building together to get me a cab to the Jeffersonian. He closes the door behind me and raises his hand goodbye. I wave back and turn to see him standing on the curb, watching my cab drive away.

B&B

* * *

S. Booth 2:40 pm  
to Bones

Hi. Did you eat lunch?

Dr. Temperance Brennan 2:41 pm  
to S. Booth

Yes, Booth, I ate. I can take care of myself, you know.

S. Booth 2:42 pm  
to Bones

Just checking, you know, in case you wanted to meet me at the diner for a snack. -)

Dr. Temperance Brennan 2:45 pm  
to S. Booth

Booth, I can't. I have too much to do. I'll call when I'm finished. Bye.

S. Booth 4:34 pm  
to Bones

Hi. How are the bones?

Dr. Temperance Brennan 4:35 pm  
to S. Booth

The bones? Which bones? Do we have a case?

S. Booth 4:37 pm  
to Bones

No, I meant the bones you were working on, the work you are doing. I figured it had something to do with bones. I was wrong obviously.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 4:41 pm  
to S. Booth

Ah. No. I am one of the field advisors for the Journal of Forensic Pathology and I had a number of submissions to read and review today, as well as a set of case studies submitted by the students in my class to review and assess. That's what I'm doing today.

S. Booth 4:43 pm  
to Bones

You could do that at home! Why don't you do the work at your place and I'll bring dinner over?

Dr. Temperance Brennan 4:48 pm  
to S. Booth

Booth, I can't. I am much more efficient here. I'll be done faster if I do the work here. I'll call at 7:30 and let you know how far along I am. All right?

S. Booth 4:55 pm  
to Bones

Okay. Talk to you later.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 4:56 pm  
to S. Booth

Why do I feel as though you are mad at me?

S. Booth 4:59 pm  
to Bones

Nah. It's fine. I should stop bugging you. Do your thing. Talk to you later. :-)

Dr. Temperance Brennan 5:01 pm  
to S. Booth

It doesn't make any sense, but I find that the little smiley face makes me feel better.

S. Booth 5:04 pm  
to Bones

:-)

S. Booth 6:30 pm  
to Bones

After Heather Taffett was killed I had dreams. Not really nightmares just incredibly vivid dreams. Some of them were from real life- things that had happened to us, you and me. Some of them were just things that could happen.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 6:32 pm  
to S. Booth

What do you mean, Booth? What kind of dreams?

S. Booth 6:34 pm  
to Bones

The one that I kept having sometimes 2 or 3 times in a night was after the bomb blew up that time…remember when the Santa blew up?

Dr. Temperance Brennan 6:35 pm  
to S. Booth

I remember.

S. Booth 6:37 pm  
to Bones

Anyway. I'd have this dream where I would get hurt. It was always me and you would drive up in your blue jumpsuit sometimes with the squints and sometimes not and run over to me and ask me how I was, if I was ok. You would kind of…pat me down, making sure I wasn't hurt. And I would tell you I was ok and then you'd go collect evidence and samples and stuff like you do. And then the dream would switch to another time and the frantic patting down and the questioning would start again. New situations, same procedure: That same day when Heather Taffett was shot, the time that you came and got me off that ship that the navy was sinking, the time there was a bomb scare at the FBI building, the time you busted in when that lightweight flunky was burning me with a screwdriver, the time Russ was shot at in the diner, even that time that I went in to get that kid being held hostage—remember 'Paladin'?…and on and on. Including a whole bunch of scenarios that never happened. You'd be checking me over each time patting me with your hands, cataloging what you found or didn't find in that serious voice you have when you are working. Except that you sounded scared too. And I kept telling you I was all right. But you weren't listening to me or couldn't hear me or something. Then the dream would end and the next one would start.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 6:44 pm  
to S. Booth

This started…the day Heather Taffett was shot?

S. Booth 6:45 pm  
to Bones

Yes. And you remember, I'm sure, that until we were sure it was Broadsky, your father was on the suspect list? We suspected him along with a bunch of other people.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 6:47 pm  
to S. Booth

I didn't.

S. Booth 6:48 pm  
to Bones

You didn't?

Dr. Temperance Brennan 6:50 pm  
to S. Booth

No. He told me he didn't do it, and I believed him. And then I told him he should tell you about where he had been and give you the receipts from his travel as proof and then he said that I could tell you, that my belief in him was good enough for him.

S. Booth 6:54 pm  
to Bones

Well, then I got blown up and after you picked me up at the hospital, we went to the diner for some decent lunch and met Sweets and Caroline were there and then you went out and said goodbye to your father. He gave you something.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 6:57 pm  
to S. Booth

A conch shell. I could hear the ocean. It is really a toothbrush holder, but I could still hear the ocean in it. It was beautiful.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 7:03 pm  
to S. Booth

Booth?

S. Booth 7:05 pm  
to Bones

I'm here. It wasn't just the toothbrush holder, **you** were beautiful. You stood outside in the cold listening to the ocean and I sat inside battered and hurting from being blown up and you were just **so** beautiful. You cared about me, were so upset that I was hurt and you were-I don't know—so alive. You are more **there **than other people, Bones. At least to me. And I knew that I had lost something precious, something rare, and that I hadn't deserved you. But for a minute, almost a whole minute, while you stood there, I thought that I could walk out the door and kiss your lips. That they would be cold and wet when the flakes of snow melted in my mouth and you would be surprised but maybe you would kiss me back.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 7:14 pm  
to S. Booth

Then what happened?

S. Booth 7:13 pm  
to Bones

Then you came back inside and I felt guilty for having thought about kissing you and our waitress brought the hot chocolate that I had ordered for you and you complained it was not good for you but you drank all of it anyway including the whipped cream and then you bullied me into going home taking some ibuprophen and getting some sleep. So that's it. The third story. The third time I wanted to kiss you when I was with Hannah.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 7:18 pm  
to S. Booth

What about the dreams?

S. Booth 7:19 pm  
to Bones

They stopped eventually.

Dr. Temperance Brennan 7:22 pm  
to S. Booth

You want to meet me for dinner at my place?

S. Booth 7:23 pm  
to Bones

Yes! See you there in 20 minutes? Should I pick something up?

Dr. Temperance Brennan 7:25 pm  
to S. Booth

No, I have the supplies for grilled cheese and soup. Is that acceptable to you?

S. Booth 7:26 pm  
to Bones

Sounds good. I'll meet you there.

B&B

* * *

On the way home, I realize that I am still holding onto the image of Booth emailing me. I can picture him, sitting on the couch, hunched forward, pecking at the keyboard of his laptop on the coffee table.

When I open the door to my apartment, Booth is waiting for me, sitting just outside of the foyer in a dining room chair turned to face the door, beer in his hand. He rises as I place my keys in the basket by the door and then he is behind me drawing my coat down my shoulders. He hangs it on a hook by the door and then turns me to unwrap the scarf from my neck. I toe off my boots, holding on to his arms to steady myself. His arms are so well developed that it seems like a waste, to use all that power just to keep my balance. I glance up to try to get a read on his mood, his state of mind. In the silence, having lost several inches in height after having shucked my boots, with Booth's broad chest and impressive biceps before me, with the heat of his gaze, the force of him, of Booth, I feel delicate and very very womanly. He takes my hand and, in a kind of daze, I let him draw me across my own apartment. He does not seem to have spent much time here, but I can feel from the mix of warm and cold that he has turned the heat on, and higher than I would normally set it. He draws me into my own bedroom, where he has turned on the small lamp on my dresser, and here too, it is warm, the ticking of the radiators the only sound other than the faint ambient noise of the city outside the room. Otherwise, my bedroom is shadowed, hushed, and intimate. Having been away for a day, I can smell the faint scent of apricot and gardenia as if they belong to someone else.

And then Booth is holding my face in his warm, calloused hands, thumbing stray strands of hair away from my eyes, leaning in to place small blissful kisses along my hairline, below and behind my ear, down my neck. No words have been spoken and yet I know that Booth is, that _this _is all about me, and yet, he doesn't hesitate to move me with his touch so that he can reach the places he wants to kiss, so that he can stroke where he wants to stroke, so that he can press the tips of his rough fingers against the small of my back. He kisses me all over my face and neck, my shoulders and finally, when he wants to take my shirt off, he moves behind me, leaving slow sucking kisses along my upper back and the nape of my neck. He takes the hem of my shirt and pulls it steadily up my body until I lift my arms and it comes free with a gentle pull at my hair.

Booth presses into me from behind, and I can feel his erection pressing up against me as his fingers stroke and make little circles on my stomach and sides as his head drops to my neck and he kisses and whispers to me.

"Bones…Bones…I can't promise that I won't always want you this much. I can't promise that I won't bother you at work, that I won't want you to leave what you are doing to come play with me…" at my little smile, he cranes forward to place a single sweet kiss—our first tonight—on my lips. "Hey, no laughing at me." he says against my smiling lips, and then shifts back a little to kiss stroke my shoulders and down my arms. I don't even notice that while he is doing this, he also unsnaps my bra, but then my breasts, already feeling full and ready are in his hands and I notice then, my head tipping back to rest against him, exposing my neck and eliciting a small needy sound from me.

Booth moans and his kisses, from the hollow of my throat up to my chin and along my jaw become more forceful, wetter, and, I note with just the smallest bit of smugness, a little less controlled, a little more desperate. He still hasn't kissed my mouth properly and I am starting to feel the lack; I now feel almost hungry, without his mouth on mine.

Before I can complain, though, his hands are on my hips and then the button of my jeans and then my jeans are sliding down my hips to the floor. His hands return to my hips and he gently but firmly pushes me to the bed, crowding me so that I climb on and lay down. He eyes are dark and hot as he looks at my breasts, the soft curve of my stomach, between my legs. Only because I am watching him so closely do I see the instant of hesitation before he gives in and takes my breast into his mouth, sucking strongly and tonguing my nipple.

"Uhn-nuh-nuh-nuh," I moan helplessly, arching toward him, and his hands take my hands and stretch them high over my head, pressing once, an order: stay. His mouth comes free with a little wet sound and I moan a little in complaint. His abs contract and hold him, just inches above me as he roughly pulls his own shirt over his head to land on the floor somewhere and I can't help but laugh softly as I shift down a little to settle my head on the pillow, assiduously leaving my hands where he put them. He is so careful with me and so careless with himself. He unbuttons the top button of his jeans and unzips them just a little, just enough for me to see—sneaking a peek— that he doesn't have any underwear on. A bolt of arousal zings through me like electricity as I see the small bit of springy hair between the teeth of the zipper.

Booth shifts to my side, resting his head on his hand and begins to touch me. The first time, he watches my face while he does. He seems too intent on what he's doing to speak, so I don't either. My whole body is starting to hum while he strokes from the tip of my fingers down the sensitive inner surface of my forearms down, lingering to caress the sensitive skin of my underarm, along the swell of my breast, my stomach, down along the sweet seam of my leg. His fingers just barely, almost accidentally, graze the soft hair between my own legs, and tickle the soft skin on inside of my thighs. My eyes close then, just for a few seconds and my body arches helplessly toward him. When I open my eyes again, his are still on mine but his own arousal shines brighter in them. He moves his own hand back up to stroke mine again and I moan a little. This time, though, he watches himself, follows the movement of his hands with his eyes. And I watch him, watch the glazed look in his eyes as he watches his hands make love to me, twist the cord of arousal inside of me. I am rolling my hips and bucking a little against his hand, now, unable to resist moving against him somehow.

Finally, he gives in and while squeezing and rolling my right nipple in his hand, he takes my left breast into his mouth again. I break too and my hands come down to scrape through his hair, pulling his mouth harder to me. I take his hand and push it down, down, toward my center. I _feel_ centered, centered around Booth, and all of a sudden, I want to act on that perception, that he is the center. I buck harder and his mouth comes free of my breast. I lean up and take it; my high moan of relief when I taste him, when his tongue spears into my mouth, seems to steal a little more of his self-control and he falls back, letting me flip us and climb on top of him. I think, fleetingly, of touching him like he touched me, but I am too far gone for that. My mind hasn't let go of the image of his half zipped jeans and this _this_ is where I want to go.

As I kiss him, I let the full weight of my lower body grind against him, rolling, _rolling_, until he can't hold back his own needy grunts and moans. I snake my hands down to touch his hip bones and slide flat palms under the open waistband of his jeans to stroke the soft skin on either side of his balls and cock. Now it is his turn to buck into me and the fact that he is almost as out of control as I am, sends more spikes of desire through me. I wait until he opens his eyes, lean down to kiss him one last time and then kiss my way down his corded neck, down his chest and stomach until I can nuzzle my face into his half-open jeans, my hands now making quick work of the zipper and pulling, pulling at the sides until he lifts up and lets me slide them down his ass all the way to his knees. He takes it from there, kicking them off, but I know that I have derailed his plans and now he speaks, a hoarse protest in the sound of his name for me, and his hands reach to pull me back up to him.

But I have already taken his long, hard, hot, cock in my mouth, pulling and sucking with my cheeks and tongue and throat. And he tastes so good, hot and sweet and I swear I can feel him grow harder against my tongue and throat. My hand pleases itself by stroking and playing with his balls, pressing into that sweet spot low between his legs. The ache between my own legs is intense and liquid. I cannot ignore it much longer.

"Bones, oh god. Oh god, no, no, no, no, no, no, Bones. _Bones_. _Please_. Please, baby, please. Bones…." I pause, letting his wet cock slip from my mouth as I look up at him. That was all the opening he needs, it seems, and I am suddenly flat on my back, bracketed by Booth's strong arms. I look up at him and our eyes lock as his hips roll against me, pressing his cock to my mound in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure. I slip my hands between us, cupping his balls and holding the base of his cock. His eyelids droop and his eyes roll back a little but he narrows them and keeps them on mine somehow. A hoarse "Now. Now, Booth," climbs out of my throat and he moans and presses forward into my slick heat.

More like a scream than a moan, my voice is cut off by the pressure of his mouth on mine, swallowing my pleasure, making it his own. And I feel the same, fierce pride that _I_ am the one who put that look on his face, _I am the one_ who has stolen his self control. The flat look he wears when is protecting himself, or protecting others from himself, is nowhere in evidence. Every bit of him is open to me and I am in awe of him. We come together to kiss only one more time, the last time, but until then our eyes are on each other, taking in every expression of joy and pleasure on each other's face or watching where our bodies come together. Booth's cock, slippery with my wetness, driving into me. My hips, rolling up so that his balls press and slap against my ass. His face, mouth open and gasping, eyes so dark they are almost purple.

I can't, I _can't_ wait any more and I call out for him and he presses even harder into me, his mouth finding mine and I know by now that this means he is about to come and this knowledge drives me right over the _fucking_ edge, and I come, riding the spikes of my own release, coming so hard it almost hurts, feeling the unyielding bulk of his cock as I compress and squeeze around him. But it feels _soooo good_, and Booth rips his mouth from mine to lean down to suck my nipple into his mouth one last time, nipping lightly and making me moan at the renewed pulses of my orgasm. And he moans to feel it and is back up to my mouth in an instant, sucking at my lips and tongue and still driving into me. I push free of his mouth to gasp, "Booth, I _love you._" And he cries out as he comes, shuddering violently against me, his forehead slamming down against my shoulder as he presses his against the side of my neck like he is trying to climb into me.

I love the feeling of Booth on top of me, his sweaty bulk getting slowly heavier and heavier against me, until he presses a hard kiss against my neck and rolls to the side. When I don't move, but stay on my back, he says "un uh, Bones, c'mere" and reaches out to pull me into him. I settle my head on his shoulder and crook my leg across his, my arm resting on his stomach, his thumb tracing little designs on the small of my back. I smile to myself and place a small kiss on his chest, where my lips can reach. We lay together, just breathing, just _being_, until a loud grumble sounds from my stomach.

"I _knew_ it!" Booth accuses.

"_What?_" I answer him.

"You didn't eat. I _ knew _it."

"I _did_ eat!"

"You ate _half _ of the world's smallest granola bar… _maybe_."

I am up on my elbow now, looking down at his smug face. "Well, then feed me…you…you…_irrational man!_"

"Bones, we really need to work on your trash talk." Booth smiles as pushes up to get off the bed. I ignore his helping hand and get up myself. He grabs me as I attempt to stalk past him. I give up my pique instantly, it feels so good to hug him.

"Hey, Bones?" Booth says, in his deep beautiful voice that even now is plucking little chords of recognition _like to like_ deep in my belly.

"Yes, Booth." I say against his neck.

"I…" There is a long pause when he doesn't say anything, but I feel him swallow.

I raise my head, meet his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing, really. I'm just…happy." He smiles ruefully.

"Me too, Booth." My voice sounds small and weak compared to his. But he doesn't seem to notice and kisses me one last time before we get dressed to make dinner.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones.

Thank you to everyone who has read my story. Because you left a little something for me in words, I can have fun thanking some of you by name: Alicia9876, Aly-Fresh1, bear23, Becksbones, bluemuriel, BonesLenka, broilthesuspect, casket4mytears, Covalent Bond, dharmamonkey, delia84, Dizzy Ink, DorothyOz, DWBBFan, dyna63, Ella071, EverythingEventually, FaithinBones, farchester, fluffybird, Frost1610, geraghtyvl, grc73, harper83, huronia, Jenny1701, jazzyproz, jmbatt, jneakins, jsboneslover, kdgteacher7, latetobones, Lliaaame, luckywynner86, maneu, MJRojas28, missjhay, NatesMama, nertooold54, penandra, pnwer, Rangers042376, razztaztic , redgirlang, Robert Modean, RowdyRomantic, RuesSong, SamBrace, SammieAtHome, sarahlizlangas, SchwuppDiDupsi, speaknowbeloud, squintwannabe, sunflower-queen, tantemary, Tantrace, tempertemper, the dud pistachio, thorteso, twilightgirl1690, TwoBecomeOne, Wendish, xhio, and Yatobu. Thank you for writing back to me.

Thank goodness for the expertise of generous friends and colleagues! Thank you to Aly-Fresh1, casket4mytears, and dharmamonkey for their musical expertise this chapter. I had Booth use their actual words, their opinion of how he would feel about certain bands. That was fun.

In honor of Tolkein's birthday this last week, a quote from The Hobbit: "There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after."

Michele  
January 8, 2012

* * *

"Booth, I really need to get to the lab…I can just go on ahead…You can take your time…You've got your car."

I say almost these exact words for the third time this morning. And for the third time, Booth assures me that he's almost done, that we can ride together. What little time I have spent with Booth in the morning has been almost entirely during our undercover work, when the routine was out of the normal course of things, or, now that I thought about it, largely defined by _him_ coming to get _ me_. If today is anything to go by-and it may not be, given the insufficient amount of sleep we have been getting these last few nights- he turns out to be a pretty pleasant morning companion (more so than I am) but _slow_. And easily distracted.

"Ow! Damn! Damn damn damn!" He doesn't sound distracted now.

"What, Booth?" I call out, trying to keep my impatience out of my voice.

"I nicked myself shaving. Tsssss...ow!"

"Booth! I really would like to get to work as soon as possible! When I left yesterday, I left my work area covered in student papers and while they aren't exactly confidential, it is not like me to leave such things out in the open. Not to mention the fact that I didn't get as much done yesterday as I would have liked."

Booth's face—toilet paper patch on his chin and bits of shaving cream high up on his cheek-pokes out around the corner, grinning. "Were you in a rush last night, Bones?"

He really must be tired this morning because the piece of toast I'm no longer holding hits him in the forehead. "Hey!" His face disappears back around the corner.

I retrieve my other piece of toast from the kitchen, after a moment's thought, I put another two pieces of bread in. If he is ready, I decide, by the time his toast is done and buttered, then we can go together. If he is not, I am leaving without him. Perhaps it was the toast to the head that convinced him of my seriousness, but for whatever reason, Booth was putting on his suit coat over his newly holstered gun and placing badge, wallet, and keys in their appropriate spots when I stacked the toast in a napkin and came out of the kitchen. As impatient as I am, I can't help but appreciate Booth's meticulous attention to detail. For all his casual good-humor and masculine disdain for anything remotely considered frilly or "girly", he is tidy and organized about his physical appearance and surroundings. It is, I muse, an interestingly counterintuitive characteristic.

Booth closes and locks the door behind him and I hand him his toast. As we ride down in the elevator he asks, "Want to have lunch at the diner later?"

"Booth, I don't think I will be able to today. I have too much to do." I blurt out. "Actually, I...I may not be finished until late tonight."

"Oh. Okay, Bones." he says, and we walk the rest of the way in silence. It doesn't _feel_awkward but it feels very...silent. Like maybe he has something to say and isn't saying it. Nevertheless, the drive over continues in silence. Booth seems to be concentrating on negotiating D.C. morning traffic, head shifting left and right and eyes flicking to the mirrors. My mind is occupied with the coming day. I need to get to work to call the other Field Advisor on the Journal. Three of the submissions yesterday require a discussion and agreement between us on whether to recommend publication. Two of the three should not be too controversial-the authors are fairly young and being asked for further supporting evidence and a rewrite before publication is not unusual. The third article, however, is written by some well-known names in the field and in my opinion, constitutes shoddy work founded on far from rigorous methodology. To turn down publication absolutely would have ramifications that would undoubtedly be polarizing and all too public. I wouldn't shrink from it, but I do want to make sure that Anders and I are in agreement. When not in the field, he is based out of Cambridge and teaches afternoon classes. If I can't call him soon, I'll have to wait until much later in the day.

Booth slams on the brakes and curses under his breath as a small car cuts him off. I turn toward him, distracted from my thoughts. I am aware, suddenly, of the early morning light slanting through the window of the truck. Winter sun in the northern hemisphere is more direct than summer sunlight, and sometimes, like now, can have a warm, orangey tint that is lovely. The aroma of Booth's shaving gel wafts to me in the warming air of the cab, and I recognize all the other little components of his morning scent. A smell, a scene, that has played out hundreds of times as we drove to crime scenes, as he dropped me at the Jeffersonian, as he picked me up to bring me over to the Hoover for an interrogation. Now, though, when he drives me home, he might stay, or we might drive to his apartment for the night. He is such a beautiful man, I think in wonder, unable to look away and noticing as if for the first time. I know how soft his lips are, how firm the line of his jaw is, what my nose feels like pressed up against his. Booth is wearing sunglasses but still I see him shoot me a quick glance. A hard knot of want presses at the base of my throat.

"What?' He says, with a quirk of his eyebrows, as my cell phone rings.

"Brennan." It is Mr. Visiri. I give him instructions related to his priorities this morning and ask him to close my office door for me, the better to keep anyone from seeing the dishevelment of my work space. I am irritated anew. I frequently arrive at the lab behind my interns due to time spent in the field or at the Hoover, but somehow, knowing that my lateness is not due to what I would consider a legitimate excuse, I feel guilty and irritable when our conversation is concluded, although I did make a supreme effort not to take out my bad humor on Mr. Visiri.

"Bones?" Booth's voice is neutral.

"Yes, Booth?" Mine too, I hope.

"Do we have time to stop for coffee? I know you are in a hurry..." Booth flicks another glance my way and I sigh.

"Yes. We have time. Can you stop at the Cafe G's near the Jeffersonian?" They have the best lattes and if we are going to stop, it might as well be for the best coffee.

"Sure." And Booth settles back in his seat a little further. Just a few minutes later, we pull up to the curb, just a block away from the coffee place, although still seven from the Jeffersonian. In the interest of time, I'll have Booth drop me.

Not only does this coffee shop boast excellent coffee but it is an unusually large space with many tables. It is a popular meeting place and in fact, there are several tables already taken up with lively professional conversations of various sorts, papers and laptops spread out even at this relatively early hour. As I step toward the counter with Booth, unwrapping my scarf in the sudden warmth, I see a familiar figure at a table on the other side of the room. He looks up at the same time and catches my eye.

"Tempe!"  
"Anders?"

The tall scientist rises from the table where he is meeting with Dr. Wheaton of the Roman Antiquities division of the Jeffersonian, and I walk forward a step to greet him, kissing his cheek as he kisses mine and wraps me in a quick hug.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in amazement.

"I meant to write last week and tell you that I was coming, but with one thing and another, I never did. I was going to stop by the Jeffersonian in a little while and hope for the best. We really need to talk about some of the submissions for the journal." Anders is notoriously disorganized and perennially late, but has a keen mind that, even with impressive credentials in teaching and pure research, lives for work in the field where his mind can discern the past most lucidly. It is not unusual for me to call his cell phone to consult and find him in very unlikely places. But a coffee shop seven blocks from the Jeffersonian when I most need to reach him has set some kind of record.

"Bones?"

I turn to Booth, making room and pulling him out of line. "Agent Seeley Booth, this is Dr. Anders Maes. Anders, Booth is my..." and just like that, I hesitate. The smallest of pauses but Booth and I haven't talked about this. We haven't talked about _anything_, it seems to me now, panic rising up with the blush on my cheeks. A blush! Me! It is intolerable. "...partner_." I am cool and collected_and the blush, I reason, can be put down to the heat in the shop. Anders is not one to notice such things and he reaches forward enthusiastically to grip and shake Booth's hand.

"Nice to meet you, Agent Booth. I have heard so much about your work with Tempe. It is a pleasure to meet you. Would you care to sit down, join us?" Behind him, Dr. Wheaton has gathered his briefcase and donned his coat. He comes up and touches Anders elbow briefly. "Anders, I've got to get going...Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth," he acknowledges me with a pleasant smile but his smile is a little more guarded when he nods to Booth. "I'll see you tomorrow night?"

While the two men exchange pleasantries, I glance up at Booth. It is too much to hope that he did not notice my hesitation and sure enough, he is looking at me with an alarmingly unreadable expression on his face-deliberately blank, in my opinion. I start to speak but he raises his voice over mine.

"I'll get the coffees, Bones. I'll be right back." With one last glance at his back, I turn to my colleague. By the time Booth returns, I have explained Booth's nickname for me and agreed to stay here to discuss the journal submissions with Anders, glad that I have made a habit of carrying my bag with me at all times for fear of my laptop being stolen. Booth places my coffee in front of me and when I reach for it, thanking him, our fingers touch. A small shiver of awareness flutters through me and I pull back as if at a shock. I look up quickly, but Booth isn't looking at me, but at Anders. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Maes."

"Anders, please, Agent Booth."

"Most people just call me Booth." Booth says with a polite and it seems, genuinely warm, smile. "Bones," he catches my eye now, "I'll talk to you later?"

"Yes, Booth. I'll call you later." I repeat inanely, cursing inwardly, for not knowing what to say. How do you say _I want you to kiss me goodbye and seeing you again later will make every other success of the day pale in comparison to just being with you_?How do I say thatwhen I am not certain whether we are declaring ourselves publicly or not? Booth raps two knuckles on the table in parting and lopes off. I can't help but watch him go, losing sight of him even while the bell over the door is still sounding. I turn back to Anders who has dug out his marked up copies of the submissions and just as I set my own on the table, my cell phone chirps an incoming text. I fish my phone out of my bag and see that I have received something from Booth. There are no words in the text, only three symbols. Three symbols that form a tiny, reassuring, smiley face.

B&B

* * *

On the way back to the Jeffersonian, I call Booth. I am not in the habit of calling people, even Booth, without a reason, but I still feel unsettled about the way we left things this morning and also, I feel slightly...incomplete because we did not get to kiss goodbye surreptitiously this morning.

"Hey, Bones." he says "What's up? Did you have a good time talking about anthropology stuff?"

"Yes, Booth, it was very productive. Did you have a good morning?"

"Oh, you know, same old. I'm still buried in paperwork related to Broadsky's attempt to take out that cop last week. Caroline stopped by. Sweets stopped by. It's been old home week in my office."

I smile. "Old home week? I don't know what that means." I say, pausing on a street corner, phone pressed to my ear to better hear him over the sounds of the city.

"Just a lot of familiar faces, that's all." His voice lowers and I strain to hear him. "I didn't feel like we got a real goodbye this morning. I didn't like it."

"Yes." I agree. "I noticed that also. I...it bothered me."

I can see the Jeffersonian and delay my arrival at work by slipping into a Dunkin' Donuts I'm just passing. It's busy enough that no one pays me any attention, but is quieter than the street outside.

"Bones? I know you have a lot of work to do, but if I stopped by, at lunchtime, maybe brought you something from the diner, just to say hi, you could spare 15 or 20 minutes, right?"

I am breathless, and a little giddy. Is this what everyone feels? "Yes," I breathe. "I think I can clear that much room in my schedule, Booth."

"Well, okay. I'll see you then." I can still hear the smile in his voice.

"Okay. I'll see you." I hang up and walk the rest of the way to the Jeffersonian.

B&B

* * *

It is hard to concentrate, knowing the Booth will be coming, but I manage to clear much of my email inbox in the hour before I look up to see him standing in the doorway.

"Hi." I say.

"Hi." He says. I wonder how long he has been standing there. It can't have been long, I would have noticed. He is watching me, a little smile on his face, leaning against the door. I can't help but smile back, a little, and think of what he would feel like, smell like, if I was pressed close against him, so close that I could feel the fabric of his suit impressing its weave on my cheek. Clutching him so hard that he would be surprised and gratified and a little bit worried. He would kiss my head and let his hand stroke down my hair to my back as I nuzzle my face into his neck, seeking his pulse point, letting my lips rest against his pulse, tasting his heartbeat.

He pushes off the door frame and walks toward me, flicking a quick glance behind him. I would look behind him too but I am too busy watching him, caught by the allure of incipient contact. I'll let Booth be in charge of keeping us private. And, honestly, I do not really care what people think about us.

I feel strange; warmth rises up in my stomach and my hands are nervous. As he approaches, my instincts kick in and my hands clench the arms of my chair and my head comes up, ready. But his body language doesn't change, he just takes one more step to me and places a white paper bag on my desk then leans forward to rest both his hands gently on mine where they grip the wood of my chair. My eyes close as he bends further toward me and I feel his breath, hot against my cheek. A little pause, _while he looks at me_? And then I feel his lips on mine. Soft. Coffee and Booth. It seems like a long time has passed since I kissed him. I regret once again the hurry we were in this morning. Did I even get to kiss him once this morning? The kiss is long and gentle, his lips moving slowly but surely on mine, mouth open but not a lot of tongue. Just enough to help keep the spread of fire through my limbs steady and sweet. We are not rushed despite the possibility of being interrupted, and the feel of his nose bumping mine as he draws away makes me smile.

He kisses me one last time, a little harder, and my eyes open. He stands and moves away, eyes flicking toward the door again. I had uncharacteristically lost myself in the physical sensations of kissing him although I have no doubt he was listening and aware of every sound outside of my office, ready to protect our privacy. At just that moment, Angela comes in.

"Brennan, do you-oh, Booth! Hello." She takes one look at us and her voice changes, "Ohhhhhhh. Booth." she says, raising her eyebrows and, with a knowing look, says, "Listen, guys, Hodgins and I haven't said anything, like you asked, but if you keep doing this," her hand flicks back and forth between us, "we won't _have_to say anything."

Booth moves to stand in front of me and I crane my neck around him from where I sit to see Angela. Angela's smile has broadened and she says, looking at Booth, "Easy there, big guy, it's sweet and all but I'm not the bad guy here. I'm just letting you know that you are not fooling an-y-one right now." I'm standing but have to maneuver my way around Booth.

"Booth, what are you doing? Move so I can see Angela. Angela, what are you talking about? Booth just came to bring me lunch."

"Sure he did, Sweetie. That was very nice of him. _I_ came to see if you wanted to have lunch with _me_, but clearly you have other plans. I'll catch you later!" With that little Angela waggle of the fingers, she sashays out my office door.

Booth and I stand a little awkwardly next to each other for a minute, neither looking at the other, until Booth says, "So, did you have a good meeting with that guy this morning, your doctor friend?"

"What?" I look up at him. It's not like us to be nervous with each other, to not know what to say. "Oh. Yes, we accomplished everything I needed to. He's coming by again tomorrow afternoon, for a tour of the lab. We have worked together on many occasions, but he has never been here."

"That's good." His hands clench and unclench at his sides. "Bones, this morning, when you introduced me as your partner…you know, don't you, that you can still do that. I'm still your partner. Whatever else we are."

I feel relief, that I didn't do the wrong thing, and it must have shown on my face. Booth tries to continue but seems frustrated, "I..you are better with words than I am, Bones."

"No, Booth, that's not true." Several people walk by my office door just then and we fall silent again.

It is very…difficult…to talk about such personal things here, in my office. Even I know that this conversation would go more smoothly if we could touch each other freely.

"Booth, maybe we should talk about this later, in private."

"Right. Right." He looks uncomfortable and it seems to be my fault and I am sorry. I try to say something else but Booth cuts me off. "No, you're right. You're right, Bones. Let's talk later." His hand reaches toward me again, draws back, and then swiftly reaches forward to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking the side of my face smoothly, and he leans into kiss me one last time. "Eat your lunch. I'll see you later."

"Booth." I say as he walks swiftly away. He half turns to look at me and I say, helplessly, hoping he knows what I am really saying. "Thank you. For lunch. For coming to see me." My words seem inadequate, but he seems satisfied, smiles and gives me a little salute with his fingers before making his way out of the Jeffersonian. I hear his deep voice greeting someone, Hodgins maybe. And then he is gone.

B&B

* * *

I am agitated and unsatisfied at work, for the first time I can remember. I wish we had a case—not that I wish someone were murdered—it is just that I understand the urgency, the sense of shared purpose, the well defined roles that exist during an investigation. I know that the uncertainty I am feeling is part of a developing relationship but my mind insists on trying to identify the cause of my unease, explain it, or look for a solution. I am a little angry at Angela, feeling suddenly that her interruption earlier created tension between Booth and me. Finally, in exasperation, I retreat to Limbo, calm myself with what I know, keep my mind busy and my hands busier, lulling myself into an almost trancelike state of heightened but targeted awareness. When I once again become aware of something other than the bones, I feel more centered and a quick check of my phone shows three text messages and a clock that reads 6:14 pm.

Two of the texts are from Booth. The first, at 5:15, asks if I'd like to go out for Thai tonight. The second, sent at 5:50 pm says that he is going to work out but that I should text him if I want to meet later for dinner. I make my way through the Jeffersonian, back up to the lab and my office, acknowledging a few people along the way, gather up my things, and take a cab to the Hoover. I wait outside the main doors, knowing he will see my text, find me when he's done. I sit on one of the granite slabs flanking the doors, watching people come and mostly go. A few people recognize me and say goodnight, but no one I know well; no one stops, and that suits me. And then Booth is there, stopping next to me. He is showered, hair still wet, in jeans and a fleece pullover. I'd be cold in just that, but Booth has always run hot, as he would say.

"Bones." His eyes smile at me and even though he doesn't move, I know he would like to kiss me. I smile back, letting him know that I want to kiss him too. He is jostled by someone exiting the building behind him, and Booth shuffles forward a little, protecting me from a small bubble of people leaving through the double doors.

"Hey, watch out." He says sternly and I can hear someone's aggressive response go soft when they recognize him. This same scene has played out so many times.

"Booth." He looks down at me, his arm still outstretched protectively. "I'm fine, let's get out of the way." Again, the feeling of déjà vu, as we walk down the steps together. None of the people around us seem surprised to see us together. Why would they? Just Booth and Brennan, partners.

At the Thai restaurant as we wait to be seated, I glance at Booth. He tries to smile, but his eyes are serious and dip to my mouth. I move closer, pressing against his side and slipping my arm around his waist. His strong arm curls around me and it is the easiest thing in the world for my arms to wind around him. I hear him give the hostess our usual order and ask for our food to go.

B&B

* * *

I wake up in the gray light of an especially gray dawn. Fog, I think. But I am tucked warm against Booth, who is snoring gently against me. A white paper triangle is perched on the nightstand on my side of the bed. "Bones" it says in stark, black, Boothy handwriting. My heart starts to beat faster but it can't be bad news; he's right here with me. I reach back and stroke my hand down his leg, reassuring myself and causing him to mutter and roll over onto his back, his arm coming up to lay bent above his head. I can't help but smile. Free from Booth's grasp, I reach forward and snag the piece of paper. It's still too dark to make out more than the large capitals that form my name. I wait, patiently, as the room lightens, thinking. Finally, when it seems there is enough light to read by, I carefully unfold the paper and read.

_Bones,_

_I am not good with words-not like you are. But I wanted to write you something, write something down so that it was permanent. Something you could keep to remind you of how I feel about you, always. If I was a poet, I would write you a poem. But I'm not. I only know what I know. I love you. There is always one you love the most. Out of all people. You are that person for me. The reality of you, the actual physical reality of you, is penetrating. Do you know what I mean, Bones? Like a bullet. I have no armor against you, nothing that protects me from you. I don't want to be protected from you._

_I actually do have a poem for you. Kind of a poem._

_Cal Ripkin, famous shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles, had 431 career home runs._

_Dave Taylor, played right wing for the Los Angeles Kings, scored 431 goals in the NHL_

_A White House staffer named Sam Rosenman won the White House election pool by projecting FDR would beat Dewey with 431 electoral votes in 1944. (Roosevelt won with 432.)_

_In Rolling Stone's list of the top 500 songs of all time, The Smiths' William it was Really Nothing is #431. I like "How Soon is Now" but they don't quite rock hard enough for me. Not in my ipod, but respectable._

_In Rolling Stone's list of the top 500 albums of all time, PJ Harvey's Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea is #431. Given the Cat Powers CD you own, you'd probably like this. Me, not so much._

_431 turned out to be a pretty interesting number for both of us, huh?_

_You are sleeping now and you are as beautiful when you are asleep as when you are awake. I love you, Bones._  
_Booth_

I read my love letter from Booth again and then reach over and place it carefully between the pages of the book I am reading. I shiver a little as the cool air of the room slips under the duvet as I strip off the t-shirt and panties I am wearing. I take a minute to get warm again, snuggled up against Booth's side, and then, as I wanted to yesterday, leaning up, I press my lips to the base of his throat, feeling his heartbeat against my lips, smelling his sleepy male smell, knowing that I am keyed to him, that he is mine. I have waited so long for this. And I don't have to wait anymore.

I stroke his sides, from his waist to the soft skin under his arms. I touch his naked chest and put my mouth around his nipples, playing with them wetly. I inch my hands under the waistband of his boxer briefs and slide them firmly down, down, pulling hard to slide them under his bulk. Having succeeded, and finding myself in a perfect place, I am unable to resist nuzzling my face between his legs, kissing along his thighs, mouthing and sucking his balls a little. I have only an instant's warning before strong arms pull me up and I am flat on my back, Booth looming over me, one hand reaching down to push his boxers off his feet.

His eyes are fierce and his face is tight with arousal.

"I love you, Booth."

His eyes close, as if in pain, and then they open again, to lock on mine. He is mine, I think. He loves _me_. Me, best of all.

"Booth. I love _you _the most too."

His lips are both soft and hard. He tastes every part of my mouth, his hands touch every part of my body. And when we come together, it is not gentle but fierce; he thrusts hard, smoothly spearing into me and swiveling his hips until I moan and call out for him, until my eyes close against their will to better feel the pleasure coursing through me. His lips close around my breasts, tugging and sucking at my nipples. At first the feeling is erotic but the longer he suckles, the more sensitive and raw they become, so that eventually, it is like live current runs from my breasts to where we are joined. Our bodies surge against each other, slick with sweat, my legs straight and just barely open around his thighs, so that with every stroke, I squeeze his cock, his balls, as tightly as a fist.

I am so close, I am trembling. He is so close, he stills inside of me.

"_Bones_." He rasps. "Oh Jesus. Bones, look at me." I open my eyes and I don't know, how could I know, ever know, what he sees, but I know what I see. I see my partner, my mate, the other half of me.

"Kiss me, Booth." Knowing he loves that, loves feeling my open mouth on him as he comes, and that is all I need too and I cry out, a long, high cry of release and surrender. Booth moans and trembles as he continues to shudder and thrust inside me, rolling us so that I am on top and the final pulses of his release strengthen again as he grips my hips and pulls me down on him as he thrusts up into me.

B&B

* * *

_Oh, I like this_. I am sprawled, sweaty and breathing hard on top of Booth. I almost feel like a kid, my legs danging loosely, unselfconscious and relaxed. My cheek rests on his chest, my face pressed into his neck and I shudder, as his cock slips from me. He strokes down my back with the back of his thumb, nail lightly scoring down my spine.

"Booth," I say, my voice rough with emotion. I feel so _much_ for him. It will always be unnerving, but I am glad that I have learned to enjoy how thrilling it is as well.

"Yeah, Bones?" He doesn't stop stroking, but senses that I am cooling and pulls the blanket up half over us, mostly on me.

"I remember that, when you told me that there is always one that you love the most." I kiss his neck.

"I have been thinking about that night since you started asking me to name all the times I almost jumped your bones." I rear up and kiss him on the lips.

"I know what that means...and it has "bones" in it. _Very _nice." I lay back down and wriggle a little to get him to resume touching me. I smile happily to myself when he does.

"I have been thinking about it. Those women, the first wife, the one he loved the most. I don't think it has to be the first one. I mean, Rebecca and I loved each other once, but you...I meant it, Bones. I'm not going anywhere."

I don't know how to answer him but it doesn't seem that an answer is required. After a minute, I realize that there _is_ something I want to say.

"I love my letter, Booth."

"Yeah?" He says, surprised and, I think, a little vulnerable.

"Yes." I say. "You say things very well. Beautifully, in fact."

"I just wanted you to know how I felt, in the way _you _know things. I don't know how well I said it."

"I do. You said it very well." Just that. And I can feel the affect it has on him. Booth relaxes and pulls me to him, caressing and kissing me. There are some things I know, and writing is one of them. People think I am rigid, that I am a rule follower. I am not. I adhere to the spirit, not the letter. I know writing for a purpose; I know when someone has said what needs to be said. But I don't say this to Booth. I don't need to.

And that's that, at least for now. Our phones don't ring, signalling a case. The alarm does sound and we get ready for work together. I don't insist on going myself. We order coffee.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: OK, I'm almost done. The arc of this story was meant to reshape the events around Killer in the Crosshairs and explore the beginnings of the relationship between these two smart, serious, often self-aware people. I honestly thought this would be the last chapter, but it is so long I think I want to split it in two. So half now and half later. As always, I hope you like it. Writing the story has been a gift, a wonderful place to go and reminds me of a quotation shared on twitter this week (Maria Popova is the BEST!): "We don't create a fantasy world to escape reality, we create it to be able to stay." Lynda Barry

So that said, I have an idea for a story involving my version of B&B up through Hole in the Heart, maybe even Change in the Game, so I hope that you will put me on alert because there will be more to come.

Thank you all for reading, thank you Martin Luther King for being a force for good, and Happy Bones Day! January 21, 2013

Michele

B&B

* * *

"I love it when you smell like this..." Booth's warm hands press in on my arms and shoulders, and I shiver when I feel his lips stroke along my bare shoulder. "I've always wanted to kiss you when you smell like this."

It is all I can do to stay standing and as it is, my body jerks back against him, suddenly weak and liquid. Booth absorbs my weight as if it is nothing, not even widening his stance, as he slips his arms around me to pull me tight against his body. Tuxedos hide many things, but not erections, and I moan a little and rest even more heavily against him. I clear my suddenly dry throat and manage to say, "_Booth_."

_Booth_. Whom I have had to wake every morning this week. I have replaced his alarm clock, apparently. Each morning, no matter how prepared I was to resist him, he pulled me back into bed with him-on Thursday, I was fully clothed with boots on. He covered me with his big warm body, nuzzled into my neck, tickled my sides, stroked my hair. Told me he loved me, that my skin was soft, that he would like to stay in bed all day with me. Whatever repairs needed to be made to my attire or make up were worth it. Every time. Every day. For four days since Monday when I was in a rush and threw my toast and he smiled and brought me to the coffee shop.

_Booth_. Whose team lost their hockey match on Wednesday when one of their better players was ejected from the game for some sort of extraordinarily aggressive behavior. On his way back to his apartment Booth called and shared this news and I began an amusing story of my neighbor who fell on the sidewalk—that was not the amusing part—because she had slipped on an _actual_banana peel. In any case, I did not get to finish my story because Booth interrupted me to say that his team's loss was worse and his feelings about it were stronger, sadder, because I wasn't there. I noted that they would not have been any more successful had I been there, but he mulishly insisted that he would have felt better and the least I could do was come over and try to cheer him up. And bring ice cream.

_Booth_. Whose presence has always been...formidable. Now I find myself overwhelmed by his smell, the feel of his bristly face at the end of a day, the roughness of his fingertips, not to mention the force of his character, his stubbornness, his protectiveness. I can't believe that we have kept our changed relationship secret. We haven't had an active case since Broadsky last week so that may have saved us making the decision or announcement. Some of the days this week, he has come to take me to lunch or pick me up at the end of the day; if the former, we haven't lingered in the lab, and if the latter, few people are still at their stations when I leave. Booth made plans to pick Parker up after school on Friday and have him for the night, so I was planning on spending a night in my apartment, alone, and wouldn't see him again until the Jeffersonian fundraiser Saturday night.

B&B

* * *

He calls just after 1 o'clock on Friday, having missed our lunch due to his attendance at a meeting at the Hoover. Just before we end the call, his voice drops and low as it is, the hoarse intensity of it makes me shiver. I glance up, but no one is watching, and even if they were, what would they see? Nevertheless, I think about closing my office door.

"Bones," he says, "I don't like that we didn't have lunch together. I don't like that we won't be staying together tonight and I don't like that I won't see you until tomorrow night. I don't...I just don't like it."

"Booth, we discussed this. You should tell Parker about the change in our relationship status privately—"

"Bones, I know. I _know_all right? I'm just saying that I don't like it. Even hearing your voice right now makes me hard." And indeed, his breathing is stertorous and my own body is starting to feel heavy and warm. "I want to hold you, touch your skin, feel your mouth. I don't know how to wait til tomorrow..." He trails off, tension beating between us like a drum.

"To see me?" I don't want to bait him, but I can't help myself suddenly. I want to hear him say the words. I want to know that I affect him as strongly as he affects me.

"Yeah. To see you." His voice is still soft and controlled, despite his frustration. "And to _fuck_you. Goddamn it, Bones. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"_Yes."_My answer comes out on a gasp. I don't understand the power he has over me, but it seems mutual and I feel safe with him. Safe enough to— "Booth. Go ahead. Call me what you want. Tell me where to go. Show me what you want. I'll answer. I'll be there. I'll do it."

Silence, finally broken by his voice, deep and commanding and still quiet to avoid being heard. "Take your underwear off, Baby."

"Be...before I meet you?" I manage to stammer.

"_Now_. Put me on speakerphone." I glance quickly at the door and do as he asks. I have had years to get used to him caring for me, but this total dependence on another human being, giving my body, my initiative, but not my will, over to him is incredibly sexy and addictive. I rise and slide my hands under my skirt to slip my panties and hose down and off, tucking them discreetly into the front pocket of my messenger bag.

"Take your jacket off." His voice slips into the quiet office. My nipples tighten and if he was here I would let myself moan and circle my hips against him. As it is, I fight for stillness.

"Touch your nipples, Bones." My name, not an endearment. No way to hide from who I am, what we are doing. I do as he asks.

"'S that making you wet, Bones? Don't stop, babe. Not yet." I press myself against my desk, back to the door. This would be easier, I'd feel safer if I could see the door, but I don't want to look out at the lab while I do this. Booth won't take me too far. The wooden edge of my desk pressing into my upper thighs, I close my eyes and continue to stroke my nipples through my blouse, something I have always found arousing, that through two layers of silky fabric my skin is still sensitive enough to send currents of pleasure down between my legs. "_Booth_," I beg. I am not sure what I'm asking for.

"Okay, Bones." And his voice sends one last stronger pulse of want through me, and I shudder, involuntarily leaning forward, quickly pressing my palms to the desk to steady myself and a small sound escapes my lips.

_"Jesus_." Booth mutters. I swear I can hear him run his hand through his hair. I feel a small flare of satisfaction that his control took a hit. "Okay, Babe, okay. Get your coat and bag—you won't need your jacket—and meet me at the Park Hyatt as soon as you can get there." His voice in my ear, the cadence of his words and even his sentence structure are hypnotic. "I want you to think of something while you wait though. Can you feel my my mouth on you, Bones? Because it is all I can think about. I want to kiss the back of your neck, suck a little harder than I should, leave a mark. I _want_ that. I want to lick the soft skin of your thighs between your legs, bite a little, leave a mark there too while I smell how much you want me. I want to hold your arms behind you so that your pretty tits push themselves into my mouth, until you moan and cry and _beg_me to give you more. Can you do that for me, Bones? Because I don't want to be thinking about it alone and it is pretty much all I have thought about all fucking day long."

He waits, breathing hard into the phone and I realize that he is waiting for an answer. "Yes," I croak and clear my throat. _"Yes,_Booth." And the call is ended, the desperate need to impress ourselves on one another still thrumming despite all the space between us and certainly not dependent on a phone connection. I may have placed the phone in the cradle, and I must have put my coat on, but I left the lab in a dreamy haze. As I follow the contour of the platform around to the front doors, humor breaks in and sobers me for a moment as I recognize my first "dreamy haze." I hear Cam calling my name but she gives up when I ignore her.

A cab is easy to find this time of day and the ride is unremarkable. When I get to the hotel, Booth is already there, in the lobby. He's talking with someone, and while I am surprised, I cross over to him and the man who has his back turned to me, gesturing and saying something to Booth. Booth laughs easily but I can see the tension in his body. The arm farthest from the man sweeps outward toward me, pulling me in, including me, and the man turns. But it is Booth's hand I am focused on, even as I meet vaguely familiar eyes and bone structure, I am waiting for the first instant of contact.

"Dr. Brennan!" A hand to shake. I smile and say hello. Booth reintroduces me to the man, the head of the Chicago FBI field office whom I obviously have met at some point in the past. His position explains the accommodations, so much better than Booth books when he travels. Booth still hasn't touched me, but I can feel his hand hovering over my back. I hear him say something about a meeting with my publisher in her rooms, a lie that slips so sweetly from his lips. And I think I can feel the heat from his hand through my blouse. Whatever my mind thinks it knows, my body is _certain_it can feel his warmth, and he blocks the light from the windows with his body. He is standing to my right and just behind me so that while he isn't touching me, I still feel at once sheltered and encroached upon. And I can smell him—coffee, his office, his body wash, a little sweat.

My body visibly shudders when I feel his fingers rasp against the back of my neck. _When did the man leave?_His voice, dark and sweet against my ear. "C'mon, Bones. Let's go." His thumbnail strokes slowly down my back and his palm presses just above my buttocks to propel me gently forward.

In the elevator, mercifully empty, his hands fist and thud against the side of the car on either side of my head as his body crowds and pushes against mine, his mouth urgently pressing at and pushing open my own. I open my mouth against his, push back, snake my hands up his chest to stroke his neck, tunnel my hands into the hair on the back of his head, pulling him harder to me. He grunts and accedes, leaning even more heavily into me with his mouth, his groin, but leaving enough space that I can run one hand over his pectorals to push and tweak his tight nipple. He gives me more rough sounds from his throat and pushes a knee between my legs so that I am riding him.

The sound of the elevator reaching our floor penetrates and the whoosh of the doors opening and the possibility of being observed rises in my consciousness. Booth withdraws his now damp knee, setting me down on the floor and grabs at my hand. We are in a room at the end of the hall and have to stop twice to kiss, embracing openly until some sound or inner cue prompts us to move again.

Once in the room, to my surprise, Booth doesn't kiss me right away. Instead he drags a heavy cushioned chair with wooden arms across the room toward me, takes his gray suit coat off and tosses it onto a different chair, in the corner. He loosens his tie a little and sits down, leaning forward onto his elbows, like an interrogation. His eyes are dark and burning as they meet mine where I stand, just inside the room. "Anything, Bones?"

"Whatever you want, Booth." I say simply. He leans back in the chair, pose casual but body tense, tight as a wire.

"Then strip, Baby."

I slip off my heels, kicking them to the side. Unbutton my blouse, top to bottom. Let it slip off my shoulders to puddle on the floor. Reach behind to unsnap my bra and unzip my skirt, and finally, let both the bra and my skirt drop to the floor with my shirt. In less than fifteen seconds, I am completely naked.

Booth is breathing through his mouth, as if he can't get enough air, and his fingers twitch. "C'mere, Bones."

I push between his legs and his gaze is fixed on my breasts and below. He raises one hand and brushes his fingers across my belly, the soft hair between my legs. I bend forward to take off his tie, unbutton his shirt. I grab fistfuls of cloth and tug, and his eyes flare, but he leans forward and lets me slip his shirt off and pull his undershirt over his head. I feel him toe his shoes off and I bend to strip his socks off.

And then I am back between his legs, the only part of him still covered by clothing. Both his hands stroke up the smooth skin between my thighs, little circles getting higher and higher. I dip downward, trying to encourage him to touch me where I most want him. He meets my gaze, eyes hooded and black with arousal and compliance. I can feel the smile on my lips, powerful, maybe a little cruel, and he sees it too, answers me by stroking two fingers into my pussy swiftly. I cry out and buckle toward him, my hands landing on his shoulders. He tips his head back and I kiss him from above while he pumps his fingers into me. I am making mewling noises while I kiss him, more desperate for him than I can ever remember being.

And then he removes his fingers, but before I can protest he has risen, spun me around and placed my hands on the edge of the table against the wall. I am bent over and Booth moves in so that I can feel the heat and size of his erection through his clothes and he curves around me to take both breasts in his hands. He kisses my neck and down my back while he kneads my breasts roughly, pulling and rolling my nipples until I am crying out again and pushing back against him. Then his heat is withdrawn, and I can hear the cold sounds of a steel buckle being unlocked and hanging freely, the rasp of a zipper, pants being pushed only partway down—no time to remove them all the way. Something about the casual physicality of it, the lack of tenderness, seems so intimate, speaks so clearly of secret knowledge, that my body ripples with what can only be described as mindless lust.

"Hold on, Bones—this is going to be fucking fast," Booth growls. He grips my hips hard, and butts the head of his cock against me until it just slips in and then he strokes forcefully into my body as I violently thrust back against his.

"Ahhhhhhhh," I moan and can't help the way my hips circle and buck against him. And his strokes, from the very beginning, are wild and almost arrhythmic. He jerks into me over and over, brutally almost, if not for the fact that I am equally desperate, panting his name. I can feel his mouth open against my back, and a hand slips down between us to slick over my clit and I jerk back even harder against him and listen to his rough whisper.

"_Bones, Bones, Bones, baby, please, baby, Jesus, just don't stop, don't fucking stop, I need this, I need you, oh God, Bones, please don't stop, no, no, no, oh God, yes, c'mon. Baby, give it to me, come baby, come for me, Bones, Bones, Bones—" _And my body opens even farther to him, and as his fingers make one last pass over my clit I can feel him touching me and himself where his cock slides in and out and that is enough to take us both over the edge and I come, shaking and as it turns out, crying, as he pumps himself dry, finally coming to rest against me, just for a few seconds. He pulls out and hauls me up and around against him, cradling me against him. I can feel him kicking off his pants, and then he is lifting me and carrying me to the bed. He sits down hard with me on his lap and gathers me in. My face presses into his sweaty neck and his big warm hand smooths the clumps of hair back off my face and I cry and cry and cry. Maybe this is what being born is like. It is certainly transformative—loving Booth. I feel as though I have been turned inside out, as if everything that used to happen on the inside now happens on the outside. And I feel more vulnerable and more powerful than I have ever felt before.

"Jesus, Bones. It's going to be okay, ba— Bones. It's going to be okay. Shhhhh. I'm here. I _love _you. It's okay."

Finally, the sobs lessen and my body quiets. I draw in air, my breath hitching a little and Booth makes another plaintive sound in the back of his throat and pulls me even closer. Our breathing evens out and synchronizes and I take comfort in the ways that we match.

"Booth," I say and raise my head to look at him. He shifts back a little to thumb my tears off my cheeks. "I love you, I do—"

He cuts off my next words with his mouth. "Don't you dare say 'but', Bones, there is no 'but' here. I love you. You love me. We have fought for this. You are _not_ leaving me. Not for a good reason. Not for a bad reason. Not for some reason I'm too stupid to understand. Not for _any_reason. No." He kisses me again, as if he can kiss me forever, as if, by kissing me, he can stop the words.

"Booth." I rip my mouth from his, but I don't move away. I can't move away. I don't ever want to move away from him. "I—" _kiss_ "am—" _kiss_ "NOT leaving—" _kiss _"you..."

"You are damn right you're not." In one swift move, he has me flat on my back on smooth cool white sheets, cotton so soft it feels like silk. He's leaning on his elbows above me and he kisses first my eyes and then the rest of my face, finally drawing slow, soft, sweet kisses out of my lips, coaxing me. "Bones, I _need _you." He looks at me seriously, begging me to understand. And I don't, not completely, but he surely didn't understand my crying. I kiss him again in answer, and that's all he needs for permission before his face is between my legs, kissing and licking. The thought that he will be tasting himself as well as me flits through my head but then all thought is gone as his mouth closes over my clit and suckles. He alternates licking and sucking and he draws another orgasm from me within minutes. The next one takes longer to build but this time, he puts his fingers in me, pumping and twisting into me until I am moaning and writhing under him. And when I am starting to feel the burn, the almost painful intensity of the coming orgasm, he rises up and strokes into me with such love on his face, such a look of helpless adoration that this time I reach for his lips with mine, wanting him close, as close as possible, and also unable to bear so much naked emotion.

And then he cries out, moaning his climax into my mouth as his body presses deep into mine and something breaks in me and I am shuddering in pleasure so intense that I am almost afraid.

I must have...fallen asleep. I can't believe it, but the proof is incontrovertible. When I open my eyes, I am under the covers, Booth's naked chest warm and smooth under my cheek, his breath even but awake, his fingers slowly stroking my hair, along the edge of my face, down my back.

His voice rumbles gently against my face, "Hey there, sleepyhead."

I smile and hide my face, and I can hear him smile too, although his words are serious, "What happened?"

I sigh and settle against him again, moving the arm that has been pressed between us to lay gently across his stomach.

"Booth," I say firmly. "I think that we should not be hiding our relationship. It's confusing me. It is difficult enough assimilating all the vulnerability and desire and terrifying need that I feel for you, but to also have to hide it. It's just too much." I feel somehow that the seriousness of my words is undermined by my nakedness and my body's tendency to snuggle against its favorite person every few minutes.

Booth draws back his head just enough to look down at me, and he doesn't force me to meet his eyes. "You feel a terrifying need for me? Christ, Bones, I don't know if this makes you feel any better or not, but loving you might be the fucking scariest thing I have ever done. And you are the one person who knows just how scary some of the things I have done are." I can't resist and tip my head up to look at him.

"Really?" I know my voice sounds suspicious. Perhaps he is just humoring me.

"Aw, babe, really really truly. You utterly terrify me. Not only are you so far out of my league that it is ridiculous and I am half convinced all the time that you will finally realize it, but I am...scared for you, for myself, since we allowed ourselves to...take this risk." He releases my gaze and lies back to look up at the ceiling. "The only thing that I can compare to it is when Parker was born. He was not there, not in the world, and then he _was_. And it was like my heart was walking around outside of my body, but was still connected to my body. I was scared all the time, constantly worried about things happening to him that I didn't know I was scared of. I don't know if Rebecca felt that way but if she did, it is a wonder she ever left the hospital, ever took him outside." His voice trails off.

"But then it went away...that feeling, right?"

"No. It never went away. I just got used to it, I think. And now, I feel that way about you, kind of, too. I'm sorry but I think I'll be a little crazy about you, about us, until I don't feel so...raw. Is any of this helping you?"

I answer him slowly. "Mmmm. Well, yes, in that it helps to know what you are thinking, and yes I feel very vulnerable and also scared of how strongly I feel. But mostly it just helps to tell you, and to not be denied. I always feel that way with you Booth, always have. I have never felt...denied...by you. It is reassuring to me that a feeling with such deep roots in our relationship, so durable, can be counted upon now."

And now we are both silent, but it is a comfortable silence. "So we're together," Booth said, his voice breaking the silence.

"Yes," I answer.

"And we shouldn't hide it. We should tell people, or let them figure it out or whatever."

I roll all the way over to lean on his chest, meet his eyes again. "Yes. But we should tell our friends. It is only right. Cam, Sweets, the interns, and my dad, and Pops."

His answer is certain. "Yes. Let's tell them. We can tell Cam and Sweets at the Jeffersonian fundraiser tomorrow night. And I have the paperwork ready to send in at the office on Monday."

"What paperwork?"

"The paperwork that discloses a personal relationship between an FBI employee and a consultant."

"There is _paperwork _for this?"

"Yep. Should be okay, though. I don't think anyone is going to be all that surprised, honestly."

I lean over and kiss him. "Booth, they will be _sorry_if they try to break up our partnership." I am getting angry just thinking about it. Booth sweeps his hand down my body and I have to admit, it is hard to stay angry when he is stroking my ass. I climb up on top of him, laying every part of my body against every part of his and nuzzle my face into his neck.

"I'd like to see them take you on, but not if it upsets you, Bones." I can feel the smile in the shifting movements of Booth's jaw and throat. "I really think it is going to be ok. I'll talk to Hacker and Cullen on Monday."

"Aren't you going back to work this afternoon?"

"Nah. I took the rest of the day off. I've got to go get Parker after practice." His stomach muscles contract as he leans up to get a look at the clock by the bed. "In fact, I have to be there in about an hour. I can drop you at home or back at the Jeffersonian if you want."

"That would be nice, Booth. I think I will go home." I laugh at the surprised look on his face. I poke him in the chest and he flinches theatrically, "You are very time-consuming. I have laundry and shopping and reading and writing and all kinds of things to get caught up on tonight."

So we gather our things and put ourselves back together as well as we can. One of Booth's socks is missing and no amount of searching uncovers it. In the hotel elevator, pressed against the back wall next to each other, several other couples riding in front of us, Booth slips his hand down my buttocks, checking for underwear, I surmise. I smirk at his crestfallen expression. He is undaunted, however, and leans in for a long, sweet, but relatively chaste, kiss. My hand rests on his cheek and my fingers stroke his rough end of day beard.

"Call me later?" I say.

"Yeah. I'll call you once Parker's asleep." He hugs me to him with one arm and kisses my forehead as the elevator doors open and the others file out. Booth ushers me out before him but when he doesn't follow me into the main lobby, I turn and look back at him. He cocks his head and holds out his hand, a question in his eyes. I smile and walk back to him and take his hand.

* * *

A/N(2) Three things. First, thank you to dharmamonkey for the post-Pelant faster than the speed of light proofread and grammar tips on dialogue. Second, I didn't go outside of the house—doors locked once my husband left for work, baby in her carrier in the bathroom with me if I showered—for 3 damn weeks. Then my sister in law dragged us out to the bookstore. Scariest bookstore ever. Third, remember we started this chapter with Booth in a tux. Mmmm, Booth in a tux. Wait, what was I saying? Exactly. More on the tux later.


	16. Chapter 16

The phone rings at almost midnight.

"Hello?" I say.

"Hey." Booth says.

"Hello." I respond.

Booth laughs a little, his voice pitched low, maybe because it is nighttime, maybe because talking like this, at night, when we are most likely both in bed, in the dark, is intimate.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Maybe a little."

"Why?" I am genuinely curious, and, I realize, invested in keeping him talking. I like hearing the rumble of his voice through the phone. I _like_ what his voice does to my body. I even have come to like-most of the time-that I don't know what he is going to say.

"Because you always say 'hello' and not 'hi' or words that other people use. A little bit formal, you know?"

"Not really, but then again, I don't always perceive what people say the same way everyone else does."

"Bones, I like that about you. I have always liked that about you, even when I teased you. You always say what you mean. Not many people do that."

I don't know what to say so I just listen to him breathe on the other side of our connection. I hear him shift a little.

"Were you sleeping?" He asks. "I probably should have called sooner, but after I got Parker to bed and picked up a little bit, Rebecca called and that took a while, and then I thought I would get ready for bed before calling." His voice doesn't get quieter, but it does change tone again. "We have never done this before, called before bed...called when we are...a couple...Bones? Say something, I'm dying here."

Now I laugh a little. "I'm sorry, Booth. I was just listening to you. Well...in order then. First, I wasn't sleeping. If you must know, I was lying in bed hoping you would call. Wondering if I should call. Second, I don't mind if you call me late, even if I were sleeping. I am a light sleeper usually. I wake up a lot. Sometimes I can go back to sleep, sometimes I can't. Third, now I am wondering how Parker took the news of our romantic relationship. And fourth," I don't know how to change my voice like he did, but knowing Booth this is not something he thinks about consciously. He wouldn't plan something like that; it would just happen. So I open myself to an image from the last week, and what pops into my brain like the next slide in a presentation is crawling into bed with Booth that first night, after the first time he _made me come harder than I ever had before_ and I cried and he hugged me very tightly and we crawled into his bed, still warm from him, and slept the rest of the night together. That first night. With that image in my mind, I said, "I wish we were in bed together. Now, I mean. Then I could reach out and touch you. I would be in bed first, and when you join me, I would move close to you. I would want you to pull me into your body so that I could kiss your neck and hook my leg around yours, touch your hair with my fingers. I love the way you smell. I...talking on the phone is a poor substitute but it calls these things to mind so strongly that I am very glad you called. Even if I can't sleep curled into you, or with you curled around me. You're right, we've never done this, a phone call like this, but-" The words the image have elicited have flowed out of me measured but unplanned, and I am almost done. "I find myself aware of my own happiness right now in a way that I rarely am."

Now it is my turn to wonder as the silence lengthens. I can hear his breathing still, although it is faster than before. Surely a sign that my words moved him in some way-

"Jesus, Bones. That was...that you would say that...you don't know how happy _you_ make _me_. I still can't believe it isn't a dream that I can call you like this. That I'm _supposed_ to call you like this, hold you, know what you look like in the morning. You look beautiful in the morning, by the way."

I can't help but smile at that.

"I can hear you smiling."

"You can't hear someone smiling, Booth."

"Ah ha! _Now_, I can definitely hear you smiling."

I roll my eyes.

"I saw that."

"What?!"

"You rolled your eyes."

"_Booth_." I admonish.

"Okay, babe." Another silence. I let him wait. "Gonna let that one pass are we?"

I wait a second before finally conceding. "It's late, we're in bed...at least I am-"

"-I am too."

"And so we are both in bed and it is dark and there is no one else to hear and I thought about what you said, about your endearments being just between us and a sign that you are not mediating your speech, that you are just letting your feelings of protectiveness and...tenderness...for me come out in the words you use. I find that I approve."

"You approve."

"Yes."

"Well. Okay, then. You know, babe, you can call me endearments too."

"All right, shnookums." His guffaw was loud in my ear.

"Knock it off!"

"Just joshing."

"Hey, Bones? Can I ask you something?"

My smile at our banter faded at the more serious tone of his voice. "Yes, of course, Booth."

"Today, earlier, at the hotel. I am worried...that I was too rough." By the time he finished the sentence, I found that adrenaline had already started to flood through my system. If I hadn't been all the way awake before, I sure as hell was now.

"What do you mean, Booth? You weren't too rough. I _asked _you to tell me what you wanted." Hoping that honesty will allay his fears, I continue. "I find that I want to know, I _need_ to know, what you want, what you like, with me." There is another pause and I realize that I haven't said the right thing, somehow, if he is still worried. I think back, trying to figure out what in particular, bothers him. "What was it, in particular, that worries you, Booth?"

"I..." I don't know how I know, but I know that he is embarrassed, that what comes next embarasses him. I _really_ _am_ getting much better at reading people. Booth anyway. "I...we...I made you...you...when we..." Maybe not as good as I thought, because I have no idea what he is talking about. "we weren't in the...usual position...and then you cried."

Comprehension dawns. "Oh, you mean when you entered me from behind."

"Bones!"

"I'm sorry, Booth, I know your sensibilities are offended by frank discussions of sex. I won't say it again, but I know what you are talking about now. You are asking me if I cried because of your dominant positioning. Well, I was going to say no, but in a _way_, I think that is why I cried."

"Bones that's just what I am afraid of. You are not being very reassuring here. Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, Booth, that's not what I mean. I..." and I let some of what I felt this afternoon leak into my voice, "I found this afternoon incredibly fulfilling. I needed to feel you, feel you in me. The fact that you seem to desire me, in all the particular ways that I am me...how I look, how I talk, what I look like, how I move, what turns me on...is incredibly, powerfully-" I am at a loss for words. "Sexy" doesn't seem strong enough. "sexual, erotic, intimate. All of these things together somehow. I-and if we are confessing things to each other, Booth, I will confess to you that _I_ am the one embarrassed now-I would have done anything you asked. Giving myself over to you is as arousing as anything has ever been."

"Then why did you cry?"

"Booth you know I hate psychology. I'll tell Angela about it, maybe she'll know."

"What?! You can't tell Angela about that. Just...no."

"Why not? It's our best chance of finding out."

"Bones, you're a genius. Think a little harder."

"I never understand when people say that. Thinking isn't hard. How can it be harder?"

"Bones..."

"Fine. I think that you and I both fight for dominance. All the time. In the world. We are alphas. So when we are together we keep fighting and mostly it is thrilling and satisfying to come up against someone we can't...overwhelm, but sometimes it is a source of conflict and probably always will be. Our...romantic...relationship is different. I have had some reason to think recently that our relationship is more likely to thrive when one or the other of us deliberately offers something up of ourselves, as you put it once. If we show weakness. I thought for a long time that I would actually have to _be_ weak to be in a real relationship but instead, somehow... and I really don't know about this part. You will probably have more knowledge of how this works, but I have noticed that when I reveal my weakness or need to you, or the converse and you reveal your weakness or need to me, then our relationship is stronger. So by letting _you_ lead our liaison with _your _desires, I put myself in a strong position to fulfill them and our connection, not to mention my libido, was fully engaged. I cried..." and here I take a deep breath, because I am truly venturing into the unknown, "then and also before, that first night, because...I have never felt these things before. Never offered myself so completely, never felt the...joy that comes with doing so, with trusting...the right person. And I think that kind of..." I don't know why I have a hard time saying it. "...joy is new and overwhelming to me."

"I love you, Bones."

"I know Booth. I'm crying again, by the way."

"I know, Bones. Don't tell anyone, but I might be crying a little too."

"I won't tell anyone. Not even Angela."

"Bones!"

"I'm joshing again-" a little sob escapes my throat before I can catch it.

"Oh, babe. I wish I could be there right now." I let myself cry a little, clutching the phone to my ear as Booth murmurs his ridiculous endearments into the phone. Finally, I take a deep breath and wipe my face, rolling onto my back from where I was curled into the pillow. Booth says, in his regular voice, "Bones?"

"Yes?"

"Want me to tell you about another time I almost kissed you?"

"Yes! Yes, I do, Booth. Although, can you hold on for a minute?"

"Sure." I get out of bed and wash my face, patting it dry and putting moisturizer on again. I run a glass of water from the tap and drink it in the darkness. Then I go back to bed, sliding my now cool feet back into the warmth.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"Why do I feel as though I am telling you a bedtime story?"

"I don't know, Booth. I'm ready for my story now. And now I know _you_ are smiling."

"You got me, Bones. Settle down now. So, it was the night of the Anok exhibit."

"Oh, I remember that night!"

"Bones, do you want to hear this or not?"

"But I remember. I remember that I was going to bring Andrew."

"I really wish you wouldn't call him that."

"Booth, that's his name."

"I know, but I kinda hate that you dated him."

"Not very long."

"Long enough."

"Shorter than you think." No quick comeback this time. Instead, there is a pause and then Booth says.

"What do you mean?"

This wasn't my idea, telling this story, and I hadn't planned on revealing this, but now that we are talking about this, I figure I can tell him. "I never really took the idea of dating him seriously after that night. We did go out a few more times, but I realized at some point I probably _shouldn't_ have even started dating him, out of consideration for your feelings. And then, much later I realized that there may have been...other reasons I could not be invested in a relationship with him. I'm not sorry for it now, because I am not sure you would have ever told me that what is between us is ours without him and I have had reason to be glad you said that. It...gave me..."

"Hope?"

"No. Evidence." I don't hear him smile again. "Evidence that you felt the closeness between us too. I was often uncertain of that."

His voice is hesitant. "I didn't know you doubted that. I told you things I had never told anyone else, never thought I _would_ ever tell anyone else. But..." He took a deep breath then said, "but I can see how you were confused."

I think about that but don't have anything to add for the moment. "So tell me about the almost kissing."

Now I do hear him laugh. "This may not be as big a surprise as I thought."

"Maybe not. I wanted you to kiss me."

"You did?"

"I refuse to be diverted from _you_ wanting to kiss _me._"

"Well, what do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Well, the whole night was great, Bones. From you calling to ask if I would go with you to you letting me pick you up and bring you home."

"You have always loved being the guy, as you would say. And I felt I owed you. You know, for the egg thing."

"I know. But then the exhibit, you were right, it was really cool. And you, you were...Bones, you are beautiful, you know I think that but that night...you were drop dead gorgeous. Standing in the exhibit with you ahead of time, feeling like we were someplace we were not supposed to be-"

"Booth, it was _my_ find, we were allowed to be there."

"I know but it still felt like sneaking into Pops' liquor cabinet. In a really good way."

I smile at this. I never snuck into anyone's liquor cabinet after my parents left but I do remember sneaking out at night to memorize constellations after I had been forbidden to do so having fallen asleep at school twice in one week. But Booth is continuing.

"And so we there we were and you had this _extremely sexy_ black dress on, with this kind of see-through top thing-"

"A bodice."

"Yeah, whatever. Point is that your skin...I could see a lot of skin. And it was beautiful. I just...just wanted to _touch_ you. And I wanted other people to _not_ be able to touch you, or look at you. And _believe_ _me_, a lot of other men were looking and wanting that night. But you chose me. Not just that night, but as a partner. And I really felt that night the pride that comes with that. You did such a good thing, clearing Anok of the murder of his brother, and you were so excited about the work involved. I don't always get to see that because so much of our time is spent on current murders. So I just felt proud to be with you, I guess. Special. And that you had chosen to be with me made me feel bolder, like I could push things a little. And I wanted to. I really really wanted to." Booth fell silent then. I realized we had been talking a long time and I was tired suddenly.

"You brushed my hair back off my shoulder."

"You straightened my tie."

"It wasn't crooked."

"Your hair was perfect. I just wanted an excuse to touch you."

"That was a good story." I smile sleepily and curl on my side again.

"You falling asleep, Bones?" I yawn and he laughs. "I'll take that as a yes."

But I don't want to hang up and anyway, I haven't gotten an answer from him about Parker. "What about Parker? Did you tell him we were involved romantically?"

"Yeah. He said 'About time" and wanted to know if we could celebrate by having another bowl of ice cream."

"What did you tell him?" My eyes are closed now but I really like listening to him talk to me.

"I said sure." I smiled.

"That's nice."

"Go to sleep, Baby."

"Okay, Booth. I'll talk to you tomorrow. We're still meeting at the Jeffersonian, right?"

"Yep. I'll get there as soon as I can after Sports Award Night at Parker's school."

"Goodnight, Booth."

"Goodnight, Bones. I...this has been one of the best week's of my entire life. You know that, right?"

"Me too." I whisper. "I love you, Booth."

"I love you back, Bones. Sleep tight."


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: It took a little while, but it is a long one and I hope, a good one. And, not the last. M

* * *

Chapter 17

I wake the next morning slowly, and it takes a long time for me to feel alert. I have noticed that this is only something that happens on those fairly rare occasions that I have slept very deeply and with no interruptions. I stretch and roll over on my back, enjoying the warmth of the summerweight down comforter, thinking and watching the play of light on the wall.

_Booth_. My partner. We've been together a long time. We came close to beginning a romantic liaison a number of times over the years, I think, and always one or the other of us pulled back. We have worn down each other's defenses slowly but surely. Booth's easy physicality—his natural and cultivated athleticism, the way that from the beginning, he was always touching me, the rigor and routine of his military training even—all of this made him so predictable, so overt, that his incursions into my personal space were not threatening. But at some point, like his nickname for me, his touch became not just acceptable, but desirable. I can't remember the last time he touched me that I wasn't at least briefly conscious of the persistent desire for more, just one more touch.

"You know, Bones, I'm...I'm glad that, uh ...we don't have any secrets between each other." Booth's hand wrapping around mine under a sink, and then hauling me up when we were done and wet. _Do it again._ _Pull me into you, let me press my face into your neck. _

"That's a lot of heart, Bones." Booth, hugging me on the steps of the courthouse, foregoing the verdict in my father's case in favor of standing with me outside. Waiting, with me. _Hold my hand between yours? Put your warm hand on my face and let me lean against you?_

"Are you going to betray me?" His hand, steadying mine on the new paper dixie cup he fills with scotch. The single lamp a warm beacon between us as he helps me make sense of my unease. _Sling your arm around my shoulders as we both stumble toward a taxi and home. Let me slump against you in the back of the cab, pull me closer with your arm, stroke my arm with your fingers lightly, as if you don't know you are doing so._

"If I was working law enforcement back in the day when it threw all that tea, alright, in the harbor—I'm good, I'm good. I would have rounded everybody up and we'd still be English." His head, wobbly from drink and silliness falling gently to rest against my shoulder as we sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. _If I reach out my arm, I can put my hand on _your_ back without dislodging you from where you rest against me. I would be able to feel the heat of your body, your back, through the broadcloth, and we will almost be embracing. For once, your face is below mine. I could press my open mouth against yours as you tip your head back to smile drunkenly at me. You would kiss me back, surprised but ready._

"You just basically said that aliens are nice anthropologists." Lying on the hood of the truck looking at stars in New Mexico, the night cool enough that we needed coats. _All I could think was that our arms would be touching if we weren't wearing jackets. That I could feel the soft hair on your arms against mine. Maybe your hand would reach for mine, weave our fingers together._

I wonder when Booth thought about me as a woman, as a potential romantic partner, in the years of our partnership. I am certain he did, but what moments does _he_ remember? I wonder if he is thinking of me now. I feel so relaxed, and musing about Booth is so pleasant that it is hard to feel anxious. I want to _want_ to start my day. But I really just want to lie here and think about Booth. About his mouth on mine. I feel like a teenager with a crush, I think. What would I do if I had a crush on someone in college? Asked them directly if they wanted to have sex with me. But that's not a crush. What if I had really _liked _someone, _craved_ him, the way I crave Booth? I hesitate one more minute and then reach out my hand.

"Hi, Sweetie."

"Good morning, Angela."

"Is it a good morning? Is Studly there?" Her voice is playful and suggestive, very Angela.

"No, he had Parker last night and we decided that he should tell Parker about our...being together, just the two of them. 'Just Dad and Son,' he called it."

"Aw, that's sweet. So...did he tell him?"

"Yes. He said that Parker said 'About time.'" Angela laughed.

"No flies on Little Booth. I'm with him. Took you long enough." Angela lets the silence be. Like Booth, she seems to understand me, understand that while I think faster than 99% of the human race, I do not process or express emotional content with equal alacrity.

Finally, I say into the mouthpiece, "I was just thinking about that."

"About how it took you so long?"

"Yes."

"Did it really?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, it _did _take you till now to get physical—seriously I am in absolute _awe_ of the combined force of wills you both demonstrated over the years. You and he together must have enough pent up sexual frustration to light up New York City for a year. But you kind of worked on a lot of the other stuff couples usually work out during a relationship."

"You mean like trust?"

"Yes, but I mean _specific_ issues of trust and sharing and knowledge. Things that you only tell the person you are with. Maybe that is how all partnerships between cops is...you know your life being in danger, you being in close proximity and all. But think about it. You worked out all the family stuff...he knows _just_ how crazy your family is and you know _just_ how crazy his is. You've been on enough stakeouts and out of state assignments and late nights working to know that you each get morning breath or need a shower sometimes or whatever. You know what you like to eat and when, and how you sleep and what you do for fun."

"Sweets thought at one time that we were in a surrogate relationship."

"When it comes to you two, Sweets is full of crap, Brennan. He doesn't know for shit. You weren't in a surrogate relationship, you were in an actual relationship, a partnership. Just because you didn't get to strip him down and rub your body all over his—a damn crying shame if you ask me and yes, I know that you didn't ask me—doesn't mean it wasn't a relationship."

"I can't stop thinking about him. I feel..out of control, and while it is pleasurable, _very pleasurable_, I am finding it hard to understand or accept or...process, somehow."

I expect her to calm my fears, to reassure me that this is perfectly normal and that I should live in the moment and enjoy it. I am ready to rebut her. I don't want her to say those things, and yet I want to be reassured. I don't want to feel comfortable being obsessed with a man.

"It'll get better," she says simply.

"Wha...what do you mean?"

"It is...kind of awful. Your body doesn't feel like your own, your mind doesn't feel like your own, your mouth just wants to be kissing him all the time. I mean, don't get me wrong. It's great, awesome, mind blowing when you are together. That's the only time you feel kind of normal, but when you are apart, or even with other people, it's like you are just waiting. Like everything is on hold."

"Yes, that is exactly what it is like. How do you know that?"

"Oh, Sweetie, I know that feeling well. Just like you know how bones remodel, how bodies age and decay, I just know that there is a kind of physics of love. I will deny it if you ever tell anyone I said that, by the way. Whatever forces are at work, our bodies and minds and hearts eventually get used to the new pressures and adjust and adapt and the fog clears and everything is just easier. Not quite as intense, but still beautiful, and not so painfully distracting. I don't know if you can do this, but trust me that the intensity of your feelings won't always be this sharp and try to enjoy it. _Be_ with your man, as a woman, his woman."

"Angela, that sounds so antiquated. It doesn't sound like me at all."

"Then you aren't getting me. You know by now that you don't have to be anyone other than Temperance Brennan. Booth doesn't want you to bake pies or bat your eyes at him. He probably gets a little hard when you are rude to nosy journalists or academic suckups. He probably watches you brush past him to reposition bones that have been moved with a dreamy twinkle in his eye. All I'm saying is trust me, you won't always feel so raw. So explore it while you have it. How big is it? What will it feel like if you do..._that_? You're a scientist. Let your curiosity be bigger than your anxiety. Let Anxiety be Curiosity's bitch."

This, I understood better. And it gave me a narrow path to follow instead of feeling like I was stuck in place, not sure of what to do next.

"I...I can do that."

"Yeah. I know you can. Bren, I'm a little jealous, I gotta tell you, and just so so happy for you both." Her voice sounds thick and weepy.

"Angela! Are you crying?"

"Maybe a little. But just because I'm so happy for you."

"Well, thank you, I think."

"You're welcome. See you later? What are you wearing? What time are you going?"

We talk more about logistics and agree where to meet at the event tonight. Since becoming friends with Angela, I have learned to like the way she takes every opportunity to do little things together, like meeting out front of a restaurant so we can go in together. It really is not rational, but it is comforting and often fun.

I get through the day somehow, moving from one task to another. I go for a run. I type several recommendations, respond to email, pay bills. I walk my elderly neighbor's dog, something I have taken to doing as often as I can since she became housebound.

****************************B&B****************************

While I am walking up the front steps of the Jeffersonian, I tilt my head back to take in the festive illumination of the Jeffersonian. Even with D.C. light pollution, the night sky is a beautiful midnight blue, a waxing gibbous moon just risen above the starboard buttresses, as Hodgins calls the flanking wings of the Jeffersonian for some reason. Usually I avail myself of the convenience of one of the side entrances, but it is pleasant to walk up the more majestic front steps, and to see the lights and the flags put out for the event.

I am wearing a formal gown, fitted at the top but with a full, stiff, silvery Shantung silk skirt. Last year for Christmas, Angela bought me a beautiful deep midnight blue velvet embroidered overcoat. I don't know what to call it; there is a nomenclature of clothing with which I am not familiar, but when it comes to clothing, I have found that Angela usually knows best.

Because of the formal gown, the long surprisingly warm overcoat, and the cool beautiful evening air, the night feels special and I feel a part of it. A feeling of anticipation is thrumming deliciously through my body, and I know that not long from now, I will be dancing with Booth, his hand at my back, his smoothly shaven neck just inches from my lips, his eyes laughing and teasing on mine. Because of these things, I am stepping carefully, slowly, enjoying the night, and the sound of the marble tapping beneath my shoes.

Thinking of Booth, calling him to mind, I feel warmth flood my belly. My shoulders and hands, my thighs and even my lips, feel poised and tense, ready...ready...I don't know what they feel ready to do. I think they feel ready to do what they were built for: to hold and to touch, to run and to reach and to kiss.

I am consumed by these thoughts, by my awareness of my body, and I am only vaguely aware of the many other people, couples and groups of people going up the steps, milling around the top by the doors, talking and perhaps waiting for the rest of their group. A figure—a male figure by the tuxedo and dark scarf around his neck—detaches himself from a group and starts down the steps toward me. It isn't Booth or anyone I recognize by the their skeletal structure so I don't pay a lot of attention until he says my name.

"Dr. Brennan?"

I look up at the man as he joins me, turning and climbing back up the steps at my side. "Yes?"

"I am Adam Cole, of Stanford University. I am a neuroscientist on a year sabbatical at George Washington University. We met at Dr. Weston's lecture last month, although I didn't get a chance to speak with you further. I have read a number of your articles and one of your books and am very impressed." He clears his throat and pauses.

Into this window, I say, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," He tilts his head a little while we walk so he can meet my eyes. I look at him, wondering if he is finished.

"I..." Apparently he is not finished "I wonder if you would like to join our table tonight, for dinner?"

"Oh. No. Thank you. I have made arrangements to meet some colleagues here."

"Oh. Well, perhaps..." There is a longer pause this time and he clears his throat again. I wonder if he is sick or recovering from a cold. "perhaps you would like to join me at the end of the night. A few of us are going out for drinks."

"I'm sorry. Again, I have other plans." This produces yet another long pause and we are reaching the top of the stairs, nearing the group of people he is with. In the group, I recognize only Dr. Claudia Weston, a chemist with whom Hodgins collaborates on occasion on his own publications.

Dr. Cole speaks again, quickly, perhaps to finish his thought before rejoining the group. "Would you like to have dinner with me next Friday night?"

I scan the crowd for Booth, but it really is still a little too early for him to be here. My mood lowers a little, but I know he will be here when he can and will join me inside. I realize that we have stopped at the head of the stairs and Dr. Cole is still waiting for an answer.

"I cannot have dinner with you Friday." I try to think of what else to say but cannot. _I'm sorry _comes to mind but I have already said that and I am not really sorry. Now I clear _my_ throat...oh, perhaps he was trying to think of what to say to _me_ before. I decide, finally. "Have a good night." I smile briefly and nod to the man, heading toward the big double doors. An attendant opens it for me and I enter, detouring to the right to the coat room.

A few minutes later, I enter the Great Room, set up to include several small exhibits, tables for dining, and a dance floor. The room is full of people and getting fuller. As I walk forward, my heel catches on the back of my skirt and I have to hop to the nearest table to sit and disentangle myself. No one else is sitting yet and no one notices as I lean down low, pulling my shoe off and then working to separate my heel from the strangely persistent and greedy pocket in my hem. I hear the low ebb and flow of voices in the room and the louder, clearer voices near me. I hear a familiar voice and realize it is Dr. Cole, from the steps before.

"It was very strange, Ed. I suggested several different times and she said no to all of them, but I am not sure that I was rejected. I am not sure she realized I was asking her out."

"Adam, she's a little strange. Very direct. I find her very easy to work with because of this directness, but I think in social situations, she isn't always...astute." The man he's with sounds familiar too and I realize that they are talking about me. Dr. Cole had been asking me out on a date. Oh.

I stand, shoe in hand, and at the movement both men look at me. They are not far from me where they are settling their party at a table, and I don't have to raise my voice to say, "I didn't know you were asking me out on a date."

Dr. Cole says, "Oh. Yes, I can see that now."

I can't think of anything else that is relevant and since I really do not want to go on a date with him, I should be able to walk away, but I am pleased that the man he is with, Dr. Edward Varela, said that I am easy to work with. I don't understand why but I know just walking away now will alienate them. And they are both colleagues, if not ones with whom I would collaborate often. _Give something up of yourself every once in a while_. Booth and Angela's advice of so long ago comes to mind. It has served me well at various points in the last six years.

Drs. Cole and Varela are still watching me. I say, "I love my partner. Agent Booth."

Dr. Cole's lips twitch and press together. "Ah." He allows himself to smile a little, gently. "Thank you for clarifying. I…does he know?"

I reply definitively. "Yes, I told him…" I think back… "last Monday."

"Well. That's good then."

"He returned the sentiment." I offer.

"I am sure he did. He is a lucky man." He smiles a little more.

"Do you know him? Why is he…oh, you mean because he has my regard. Yes, I think he would say so. But…" (and I offer this a little awkwardly, but I have begun this, so I must be prepared to finish it, too) "…thank you for saying so."

And now he laughs. A little bark of laughter. I'm not sure, but…

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No!" he says, but is interrupted by Booth, coming up beside me.

"Is who laughing at you?" says the man at my side, so so handsome in his tuxedo. The tux I made him buy after the last one he rented had the pants ruined by being rolled in a carpet and burned by a soldering iron. "Why are you holding one shoe?" He glares at the other men as if one of them had forced me to take my shoe off.

"I got it caught in my dress, Booth." I look up at him and can't look away. He doesn't look inclined to look away from me either. I can't help myself and glance at his mouth, and his eyes darken, the hand I hadn't noticed yet at my back, tightening at my waist.

"Well. Should we go find our table?" As I put on my shoe, he looks over at Dr. Cole—Dr. Varela has turned away—and gives him a brief nod, still looking a little suspicious, and hustles me away in that way he does, impatient and wanting to be moving. I glance back over my shoulder and smile goodbye to Dr. Cole. He smiles back and gives me thumbs up. I feel happy at his encouragement and beam up at Booth.

"Seriously, Bones, what the hell is going on? Did you drink punch that Hodgins gave you? Was that joker bothering you?"

"No, Booth, nothing like that. I am surprised that you got here so early though, and I am…happy that you are."

Booth relaxes and slows down a little. He looks around and drags me into the foyer that rings the Great Room. There are still people, but it is much quieter and we are at the very end, so there are only a few people lingering, making calls on their cell phones or searching through their handbags for something they had lost.

Booth takes both my shoulders in his hands and gazes down at me. "Bones, you look beautiful." His fingers stroke my bare shoulders and I shiver a little. "Cold?" He says, slipping his hands around my back to hug me to him, even as he walks forward carefully, pushing me backward further into a deep pocket under the stairway leading up to the balcony. One last glance backwards to see if we are private and he cups my face and kisses me. His mouth is hot although where my nose presses into his face it feels and smells of the cold air from outside.

I open my mouth hungrily on his. It has been so long since we kissed. Too long. My own hand travels up to settle on his neck, stroking the hair on the back of his head. He moans and deepens the kiss further, one arm pulling my body into his. My other hand snakes under his tuxedo jacket to stroke the fine cloth of his shirt, and I tear my lips away from his so that I can press my face into his shirt, almost burrowing under the jacket to feel the firmness of his chest against my cheek, to _smell_ him. Mine. Oh my god. Mine. My other arm slips under the jacket too and I hug him, hard.

He breathes. I can feel the fast rise and fall of his breath under my face. It is dark under the stairs; it is even darker with my eyes closed and my face buried against him. I can feel him swallow, feel his Adam's apple jump, as well as the firm point of his jaw resting on the top of my head. His fingers stroke the fine hair at my nape that has not stayed in my upswept hairstyle.

"You okay, Bones?"

"Yes," I say, but my voice is muffled because of how I am pressing myself against him. He pulls his head back to kiss me on the head but keeps his arms around me.

"I missed you today."

My throat feels tight with emotion. "Me too, Booth." I continue to breathe into his shirt. I feel content but the pressure in my chest is constant. His hand sweeps down my bare back. The dress has straps that catch around my neck, leaving my arms, shoulders, and back bare.

"This dress..." His fingers splay wide and he continues to stroke the bare skin that he has discovered. "I fucking love this dress, Bones."

Surprised, I laugh. The urge to cry diminishes somewhat. I pull back from him, and he grunts a little in complaint. I laugh again. "Let's go in, Booth. Before I decide to kidnap you and have my wicked way with you." As I pull away fully, I let my hand stroke down over his ass in the perfectly fitted pants. I give in to my desire a little and stroke into his buttocks and down his inner thigh. At this he groans and clutches at me again, but I slip away, catching his hand. "C'mon." I pull him toward the light.

Just before we step through the archway, visible to anyone who should glance our way, he stops me by putting his hands on my shoulder. He leans forward and kisses my neck and shoulder softly, his inhale tells me that now he is smelling me.

His deep voice murmurs below my ear and my body shudders in reaction, almost bucking back into his. "I love it when you smell like this."

"_Boooooth,"_ I breathe. Admonishment and warning and...surrender. "Do you...do you want to go?" I would do it. Leave with him now.

"No." He sighs and stands straight again, puts his hand in a perfectly appropriate place on my back. "No, let's go in." I smile up at him ruefully and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

When we find our friends, they are standing near the bar. We won't actually all be sitting together, groups of us are broken out to sit at tables with prominent donors. Booth and I have done this several times together, although I attend some events like this alone, often with Cam and Hodgins. I have always liked the ones where Booth attends best though, in part because he is so good with people. Inevitably, he talks sports with some of the donors, and as a law enforcement official, he has a lot of stories to tell that people find interesting. He often adds amusing details to my own stories of the work we do at the Jeffersonian, or the work I do as an anthropologist.

So we usually meet at the bar for drinks, with everyone else, talking and then breaking off to mingle a little, meeting up now and then at the event, and then sometimes going out for drinks afterwards. Tonight, Angela, Hodgins, Cam, Dr. Edison, Mr. Bray and Mr. Vaziri are standing together. Everyone but Mr. Bray is laughing so I surmise that he just told an amusing anecdote.

"Hi, you two." Sweet's voice comes from behind me and I turn to see him joining us.

"Hi, Sweets." Booth shakes his hand, and then all the other men's hands too when we reach the group. There is, in fact, a lot of kissing and handshaking that goes on. I shake hands with everyone except Angela who insists on a kiss and a hug.

After standard greetings, Cam looks around and says, "There are some _very_ eligible bachelors here tonight, ladies. I was introduced to Dr. Cole from Stanford yesterday when he was touring the Jeffersonian and I am kind of hoping..." She cranes her neck, struggling to see through the crowd. "...that I can find out what table he is at."

"Oh," I say, "He is at the last table over there. I believe he _is_ eligible. And he is handsome. He asked me out."

I am a little surprised by the intensity of and the speed with which their faces turn toward me. And Booth looks shocked. "He _did_? When? You mean, sometime a long, long time ago?"

"No. Tonight. On the way into the Jeffersonian. On the steps. But I didn't realize it until later."

Booth's voice is high and strangled sounding. "_Tonight?_" At least some of our friends are looking at him now. But he is focused on me.

"Tonight? Is that what I walked in on earlier? When you weren't wearing your shoe?"

Angela says, "You weren't wearing your shoe?"

"Nevermind the shoe," demands Booth. "What do you mean he asked you out? What did you say?"

"I said, no, of course. I told him that I was in love with you and that I had told you so last Monday and that you reciprocated."

Stunned silence. And now they are looking at me again. Booth just stares at me and the strangest expressions are washing across his face. He looks amused and irritated and...resigned, maybe? Finally, he turns toward our friends and gestures in that Boothy way that means, "I give up. I will never understand her." I have seen that gesture before. Finally, he says, "Well? Aren't you going to congratulate us?"

And now there is more handshaking and kissing and hugging. This time Cam, Hodgins, and Sweets all insist on hugging me in addition to Angela. I maintain a professional distance with the interns and Dr. Edison and just shake their hands again, but all three of them grip my hand warmly and their sincere good wishes please me so much that I beam at them. Dr. Edison in particular seems a little dazed by my intensity.

I am relieved that the topic is dropped and we move on to other things, but Booth slides his arm around me and I rest against him a little while as we converse with Cam and Mr. Vaziri. This is the best part of the night until the dancing. Even then, I really only get two dances with Booth, but they are both wonderful. It is late when he comes and finds me for the second dance. I am deep in conversation with a donor who is a statistician by training and a philatelist in her spare time. The mathematics of the distribution and collecting of stamps and their variations is fascinating. Nevertheless, Booth is even more tempting than continuing the conversation, and as I have been conversing for almost half an hour with the woman, I feel justified in slipping away.

Booth pulls me even closer than he did in the first dance and seems content to just hold me. For my part, I let my body sink into his a little and follow his movements around the dance floor. I feel the scrape of tiny whiskers against my cheek and the rasp of his calloused fingers against my own and again feel a surge of ownership and protectiveness. I let my lips glance lightly along his jaw once when we turn, sneaking an almost kiss. He pulls back slightly and his eyes smile a little, but his mouth is serious.

"Bones, I am reaching my limit here." He looks around us, and I can see he is measuring, judging. If he is doing the same calculations in his head, he is deciding that it is late enough, and that we have "worked the crowd" enough, that we can leave.

He pulls me even closer and he leans down and speaks softly into my ear. "Bones, let's get out of here. You look beautiful in this dress, but I want you out of it." He places a quick soft kiss behind my ear. "You smell wonderful where you put the perfume on your neck, but I want to look for other places you might have put it." His fingers slip just under the edge of my dress in the back, low where the bare skin gives way to silk. "Your hair like this is gorgeous. I have always loved it when you put your hair up. Mostly because all I can think about is pulling out the pins and letting it all down." His teeth scrape my ear lobe, bite down.

The relentless cadence of the articulation of his desire makes my breasts tighten. I feel warm all over and want his mouth on mine so strongly for a minute I think it has happened, that he is actually kissing me. But he isn't, although he will be, and I need him, need to be alone with him. Right now.

"We're going, Booth." As the song ends, I spin on my heel and make a beeline for the coatroom, turning my head to ask Booth to get our things from the table and meet me out front. I wave to Angela and Hodgins over the heads of others, and hope that Booth lets Cam know we are leaving. The rest of them will figure it out. When Booth joins me, I am buttoning my coat. He slips my hand through his elbow and we leave the Jeffersonian.

"Aren't you cold?" I ask, as we step carefully down the granite risers. He looks dashing and like a hero from an earlier time in his tuxedo, only a scarf around his neck added as a nod to the cool weather. His jacket is not even buttoned.

"Nah. And we'll be at the truck in a minute."

And we are. I can't stop him from opening my door and settling me in my seat before walking around to the driver's side. And, I find, I don't really want to. The rush of desire for Booth that I felt on the dance floor has settled low in my body, but hums in my blood too, reaching all the way to my fingertips, my toes even. The urgency is blunted by this spread and I just feel warm. I feel loved, I think.

I am surprised that we converse easily on the way back to my apartment. I expected an electric silence, or stilted utterances meant to get us through the time before we could touch each other freely. Instead, once we are on the road and driving, he takes my hand and asks me how my day was. His fingers are a little cold but soon warm up against mine, toasty from a few minutes in the synthetic fur-lined pockets of the coat Angela gave me. I tell him about walking the dog and he tells me about his day with Parker, about Parker's Good Sportsmanship Award as well as the award he earned for his skill. Before we are finished, we are home.

I do manage to get my door open before he can, but still Booth is there to help me down. I appreciate it, in my formal gown and heels, and take his hand easily as I step down on the sidewalk behind my apartment building. Our hands are woven together and swing a little between us like kids. In the elevator, he pulls me into him, the whole bulky bundle of me, coat and gown and all. I lean against him, pressed against his front and tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He leans in and presses his lips to me softly, mouth just barely open and I let my mouth answer him in kind, lips barely parted and moving only lightly on his. I feel his hand sneak into my hair and pull out the pins, one by one. I curled it before I put it up and it falls around my face now in messy waves. I can't imagine it looks good but Booth's eyes are alight as he looks at me and strokes the waves away from my face sweetly.

And then the doors open and we cross to my apartment, unlock the door, and enter the dimly lit room. It smells like home, like the perfume I did dab on my upper forearms, the back of my hands, my neck and...well, a few other places.

Booth is behind me and I hear the door latch and the lock turn. He is at my back and he moves in close behind me where I stand waiting, surprisingly content to do so. I still feel as if my blood is humming, and anticipation curls and swells in my belly, my breasts, my tongue. Booth reaches around me and slowly unbuttons my coat from the top down, his face nuzzling into my neck and placing soft kisses along any exposed skin. He switches sides once but his hands continue their measured progress down, down. When he reaches the last button, he doesn't stop kissing me but he raises his hands and slides my coat gently down my arms.

His warmth is withdrawn for just a moment while he places the coat on a hook but then his lips are on my back and his fingers unhook the clasp of my dress at the neck, find the zipper at the back for the skirt, and the dress drops, in a silvery rustle of fabric to puddle around my feet. With a flick of his fingers, my bra is undone and he slides it off my arms. His warm, rough hands settle gently high at my sides and stroke lightly down my stomach. And while he does, seemingly, detour to stroke my across my stomach in a several warm circles, finger dipping lightly into my belly button to make me jerk back against him a little, his hands reach the tiny straps of my underwear and slips them down my smooth legs to my feet. He kneels on one knee briefly to roll my stockings down my legs and to help me out of my shoes. I step forward out of them, and out of the puddle of my dress.

The cool air of my apartment and desire combine and my nipples are taut, my breasts heavy with desire. And then Booth presses into me from behind again.

"I love it when you smell like this..." Booth's warm hands press in on my arms and shoulders, and I shiver when I feel his lips stroke along my bare shoulder. "I've always wanted to kiss you when you smell like this."

It is all I can do to stay standing and as it is, my body jerks back against him, suddenly weak and liquid. Booth absorbs my weight as if it is nothing, not even widening his stance, as he slips his arms around me to pull me tight against his body. Tuxedos hide many things, but not erections, and I moan a little and rest even more heavily against him. I clear my suddenly dry throat and manage to say, "_Booth_."

He takes my hand and we walk together to my bedroom. Me naked, him in his tuxedo. I expect him to turn on the light; I know by now how much he likes to watch, to see. I have to admit to voyeuristic tendencies myself so we are well suited this way. But these are really the last lucid thoughts I have because he doesn't turn on the light, just pushes me toward and onto the bed, finally losing some of his grace. He stands by the bed and strips off his own clothes and I watch avidly from my place on the bed. Once his clothes are off, I shiver at the sight of him naked, on his hands and knees, crawling across the mattress to me.

His mouth on mine. His hands on my face, in my hair. His fingers slick with wetness, stroking and spearing into me. His thumb and index finger, his palms, rolling and twisting and palming my nipples and breasts. His cock, driving deep deep into me. His.

My mouth, licking and sucking at the places where I can smell him best...his underarms, behind his ear, between his legs. My palms, cupping his balls. My fingers pumping and stroking his cock. My breasts, pressing and rubbing against him. Mine.

My body, wound as tight as the steel string of an electric guitar as I come, and his body, plunging and battering, as if it is truly trying to merge with mine, until he too breaks, crying out and sucking hard at my neck as his need rides him.

When we come back to ourselves, Booth pulls out of me and pulls me to him in one move. We shimmy up and slip under the covers. The same summerweight down comforter from this morning is covering us together now.

We lay on our sides and our eyes have adjusted to the dark well enough that I can see the outlines of his face, his lips, and can meet his eyes. He kisses me over and over, and I kiss him back. He murmurs words that don't really mean anything but mean everything here in the dark. I whisper back "I love you." He kisses my eyes closed and turns me, curls around me. I stroke his long fingers with my own, even as I let my eyes stay shut, even as I think he is still talking to me but it is a dream because I have fallen asleep and wake up again suddenly only moments later. I don't want to sleep. I want this night to last forever. I think I must say so. "Shhhhhh." Booth whispers, nuzzling into my neck. "Sleep now, Bones. I'll make you pancakes in the morning. Sleep now, okay?" And the last things I am aware of before I sleep for good are his lips, warm and soft and a little chapped, moving gently against my neck, and the low husky murmur of his voice at my ear.

END OF PART 1

(Yes, more to come. So don't go anywhere.)


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